HOMER  IN  C 


OMER  IN     HIOS. 


BY 


DENTON  J.  SNIDER. 


ST.  LOUIS. 

SIGMA  PUBLISHING   CO., 

210  PINE  ST11EET, 

1891. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1891, 

BY  DENTON  J.  SNIDER, 
in  the  office  of  Librarian  of  Congress,  Washington. 


CONTENTS. 


I.  MNEMOSYNE. 

The  Making  of  the  Poet 5 

II.  CALLIOPE. 

The  Call  of  the  Muse.     .....     27 

III.  EUTERPE. 

The  Daughter  of  Homer 47 

IV.  ERATO. 

The  Stranger  of  Northland.     ...     63 

V.  CLIO. 

The  Travels  of  Homer.    .....     85 

VI.  TERPSICHORE. 

The  Pedagogue  Chian.    .     *     .     .     .  113 

VII.  MELPOMENE. 

The  Singer  of  Ascra 131 

VIII.  THALIA. 

The  Songstress  of  Lesbos 149 

IX.  POLYHYMNIA. 

The   Psalmist  of  Israel 173 

X.  URANIA. 

The  Marriage.     ...     c      ...     201 


476406 


I. 


The  Making  of  The  Poet. 


(5) 


ARGUMENT. 

HOMER,  the  poet,  having  returned  in  old  age  to 
Chios,  his  birth-place,  an  island  not  far  from  the   coast 
of  Asia  Minor,  tells  the  story  of  his   early   life   to   his 
pupils.     Two  chief  influences  wrought  upon  his  child 
hood.     The  first  ivas  that  of  the  smith,    Chalcon,  who 
was   both  artisan  and  artist —  both  vocations  in  early 
times  ivere  united  in  one  man  —  and  who  revealed  to 
the  budding  poet  the  forms  of  the  Gods.    The  second  in 
fluence  was  that  of  his  mother,    Cretheis  (name  given 
by  Herodotus,  Vita  Horn).     She  was  the  depository  of 
fable  and  folklore,  which  she  told  to  her  boy  in  the  spirit 
of  a  poet,  and  which  are  the  chief  materials  of  his  two 
great  poems.      So  Homer  reaches  back  to  his  earliest 
years  by  the  aid  of  Mnemosyne  (memory),  who  accord 
ing  to  Hesiod  (Theogou.  915)  was  the  mother   of  the 
Nine  Muses. 


(6) 


66  Fair  was  the  day  when  I  first  peeped  into  the 

workshop  of  Chalcon, 
Chalcon,  the  smith,  who  wrought  long  ago  in  the 

city  of  Chios ; 
Now  that  day  is  the  dawn  of  my  life,  which  I  yet 

can  remember, 

All  my  hours  run  back  to  its  joy  as  my  very  be 
ginning, 
And  one  beautiful  moment  then  let  in  the  light 

of  existence, 
Starting  within  me  the  strain  that  thrills  through 

my  days  to  this  minute ! 
Still  the  old  flash  I  can  see  as  I  peeped  at  the 

door  of  the  workshop, 
Memory  whispers  the  tale  of  the  rise  of  a  world 

that  I  saw  there 
Memory,  muse  of  the  past,  is  whispering  faintly 

the  story. 

(7) 


8 


Chalcon  the  smith,  far-famed  in  the  sun-born 

island  of  Chios, 
Stood  like  a  giant  and  pounded  the  bronze  in  the 

smoke  of  his  smithy, 
Pounded  the  iron  until  it  would  sing  in  a  tune 

with  the  anvil, 
Sing  in  a  tune  with  the  tongs  and  the  anvil  and 

hammer  together, 
Making  the  music  of  work  that  rang  to  the  ends 

of  the  city. 
Figures  he  forced  from  his  soul  into  metal,  most 

beautiful  figures, 
Forced  them  by    fury  of  fire  beneath    cunning 

strokes  of  the  hammer; 
As  he  thought  them,  he  wrought  them  to  loveliest 

forms  of  the  living, 
Wrought  them  to  worshipful  shapes  of  the  Gods, 

who  dwell  on  Olympus. 
That  was  when  I  was  still  but  a  child  in  the  home 

of  my  mother, 
Sole  dear  home  of  my  life,  the  home  of  Cretheis 

my  mother  ! 
Only  two  doors  from  his  shop  with  its  soot  stood 

her  clean  little  cottage, 
Vainly  she  strove  to  restrain  her  clean  little  boy 

from  the  smithy, 
But  he  would  slip  out  the  house  and  away,  as 

soon  as  she  washed  him, 
Off  and  away  to  the  forge  just  where  the  smutch 

was  the  deepest. 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  POET.  9 

How  I  loved  the  great  bellows  puffing  its  breath 

on  the  charcoal ! 
And  the  storm  of  the  sparkles  that  lit  up    the 

smithy  with  starlight ! 
And  the  hiss  of  the  iron  red-hot  when  thrust  into 

water ! 
Greatest  man  in  the  world  I  deemed  at  that  time 

to  be  Chalcon, 
And  his  smithy  to  me  rose  up  a  second  OLvm- 

pus, 
Where  the  Gods  and  the  Heroes  I  saw  move  forth 

into  being; 
Him  too  deemed  I  divine,  like  Hephaestus,  a  God 

in  his  workshop. 
As  he  thought,  so  he  wrought  —  he  pounded  and 

rounded  the  metal 
Till  it  breathed  and  would  move  of  itself   to  a 

corner  and  stand  there, 
Till  it  spoke,  and  speaking  would  point  up  beyond 

to  Immortals. 
Bare  to  the  waist  and  shaggy  the  breast  of  the 

big-boned  Chalcon, 
As  it  heaved  with  an  earthquake  of  joy  in  the 

shock  of  creation; 
Thick  were  the  thews  of  his  arm  and  balled  at 

each  blow  till  his  shoulder, 
At  the  turn  of  his  wrist  great  chords  swelled  out 

on  his  fore-arm, 
One  huge  hand  clasped  the  grip  of  the  tongs  in 

its  broad  bony  knuckles, 


10  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Th' other  clutched  hold  of  the  sledge  and  whirled 

it  around  by  the  handle ; 
Shutting   his   jaws  like  a  lion,  and  grating  his 

teeth  in  his  fury, 
Whirled  he  the  ponderous  sledge  to  hit  in  the 

heat  of  the  iron  ; 
While  the  veins  underneath  would  heave  up  the 

grime  on  his  forehead, 
Smote  he  the  might  of  the  metal  with  all  the  grit 

of  a  Titan ; 
Working  mid  flashes  of  flame  that  leaped  out  the 

belly  of  darkness, 
Smote  he  and  sang  he  a  song  in  response  to  the 

song  of  his  hammer." 

So  spake  aged  Homerus,  the  bard,  as  he  sat  in 

his  settle, 
WThere  grew  a  garden  of  fruit,  the  fig  and  the 

pear  and  the  citron, 
Grapes  suspended  in  clusters  and    trees  of   the 

luscious  pomegranate. 
He  had  returned  to  his  home  with  a  life  full  of 

light  and  of  learning; 
Wandering  over  the  world,  he  knew  each  country 

and  city, 
Man  he  had  seen  in  the  thought  and  the  deed,  the 

Gods  he  had  seen  too ; 
Home  he    had   reached    once    more,  the    violet 

island  of  Chios, 
Blind,  ah  blind,  but  with  sight  in  his  soul  and  a 

sun  in  his  spirit. 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  POET.  11 

Youths  were  standing  around  him  and  hearkened 

to  what  he  was  telling, 
Bright-eyed  youths,  who  had  come  to  his  knees 

from  each  region  of  Hellas, 
Homerids  hopeful  of  song,  the  sons  of  the  genius 

of  Homer, 
By  the  new  tale  of  Troy  inspired,  they  sought  to 

make  measures, 
Striving  to   learn   of    the    master   to  wield   the 

hexameter  mighty, 
As  high  Zeus  the  thunderbolt  wields  in  a  flash 

through  the  Heavens, 
Leaping  from  cloud  unto  cloud  and  leaving  long 

lines  of  its  splendor, 
Rolling   the  earth   in    its    garment  of    resonant 

reverberation. 
Luminous  too  was  the  look  of  the  boys,  lit  up 

by  the  Muses, 
Eager  they   turned  to  the  sage,  and  begged  for 

the  rest  of  his  story ; 
Soon  into  musical  words  he  began  again  spinning 

his  life-thread: 

"  Chalcon,  the  smith,  was  the  maker  of  Gods 

in  the  smoke  of  his  smithy ! 
Out  of  darkness  he  wrought  them,  out  of  chaos 

primeval, 
Striking  great  blows  that  lit  up  the  night  with 

the  sparks  of  creation 


12  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Which   would   flash  from  his    mind    into  metal 

through  strokes  of  the  hammer. 
Aye,  and  the  maker  of  me  in  his  Gods  he  was 

also  —  that  Chalcon; 
He   perchance  did  not  know  it  —  the  world  he 

was  mightily  making. 
All  the  Graces  he  wrought  into  shape,  and  loved 

as  he  wrought  them, 
And  the  Fates  he  could  form  in  his  need,  though 

he  never  did  love  them, 
But  the  snake-tressed  Furies  he  banished  in  hate 

from  his  workshop. 
I  could    always  forecast  what   he  wrought    and 

whether  it  went  well, 
Whether  full  freely  the  thought  ran  out  of  his 

soul  to  the  matter, 

For  he  would  sing  at  his  work  an  old  Prome 
thean  ditty. 
Tuneful,  far-hinting  it  poured  from  his  soul  into 

forms  of  his  God-world, 
Strong  deep  notes  which  seemed  to  direct  each 

sweep  of  the  hammer, 
Just  at  the  point  where  a  stroke  might  finish  the 

work  of  the  master, 
Or  a  blow  ill-struck  might  shatter  a  year  of  his 

labor. 
Then  bright  notes  would  well  from  within  as  he 

filed  and  he  chiseled, 
Seeking   to   catch   and   to   hold   in    a  shape  the 

gleam  of  his  genius. 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  POET.  13 

Battles   he   pictured   in   silver   and   gold  on  the 

shield  of  the  warrior, 
Corselets    he   plaited   in   proof   and   swords   he 

forged  for  the  Hero, 
Many  a  goblet  he  made  wreathed  round  with  the 

frolic  of  Bacchus, 
All  the  Gods    he  could  fashion  to  life,  in  repose 

and  in  motion, 

Their  high  shapes  he  could  call  from  his  soul,  to 
gether  and  singly, 
Call  with  their  godhood  down  from  the  heights  of 

the  radiant  Heavens, 
Till  the   dingy   old  smithy  shot  into  Olympian 

sunshine. 
Chalcon,   Oh   Chalcon,  me  thou  hast  formed  in 

forming  Immortals, 
And  the  song  of  thy  hammer  I  hear  in  the    ring 

of  my  measures, 
Oft  I  can  feel  thee  striking  thy  anvil   still  in  my 

heart-strokes, 
Which  are  forging  my  strains  like  thee  when  thou 

smotest  the  metal, 
Till   it  rang  and  it  sang  the  strong  tune  of    the 

stress  of  thy  labor. 
Chalcon,  thy  workshop  went  with  me  in  every 

turn  of  my  travel, 
Through  the  East  and  the  West  of   wide  Hellas, 

through  island  and  mainland, 
Through  the  seas  in  the  storm,  through  mount 
ains  rolling  in  thunder, 


14  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

With  me  it  went   in  my  wandering,  e'en  to  the 

top  of  Olympus: 
Never  thy  shapes  shall  fade  from  the  sight  of  my 

soul,  Oh  Chalcon." 

Quickly  the  poet  turned  round  in  his  seat  and 

said  to  his  servant: 
"  Come,  Amyntas  my  boy,  now  bring  some  wine 

in  my  goblet, 
Chian  wine  in  my  goblet  wrought  by  the  cunning 

of  Chalcon, 
Which  he  gave  to  me  once  when  I  sang  him  my 

earliest  measures, 

Eound  which  are  dancing  the  youths  at  the  tast 
ing  the  must  of  the  wine-press, 
While  tlie  God  overgrown  with  leaves  and  with 

vines  looks  laughing; 
Chalcon  gave  it  me  once  as  a  prize  when  I  sang 

in  his  workshop, 
Sang  him  my  earliest  measures  in  tune  to   the 

strokes  of  his  hammer." 

Beardless  Amyntas,  the  cup  bearer,  brought  the 
chalice  of  Chian, 

Choicest  of  wine,  that  sparkled  and  danced  on 
the  rim  of  the  chalice, 

Draught  of  the  sea,  and  the  earth,  and  the  sun 
shine  together  commingled, 

Liquid  poesy,  stealthily  sung  in  each  drop  by  the 
wine-god. 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  POET.  15 

Softly  the  singer  sipped  off  the  glittering  beads 

of  the  beaker, 
Touching  his  lip  to  the  line  where  the  rim   and 

the  brim  come  together, 
Where  flash  twinkles  of  joy  and  laugh  in  the  eye 

of  the  drinker. 
That    was  the   essence    of  Chios  distilled  from 

the  heart  of  her  mountains, 
Tempered  hot  in  the  fires  that  smoulder  still  in 

the  soil  there, 
Drawn  by  the  grape  into  drops  that  shoot  into 

millions  of  sparkles, 
Generous  vintage  of  Chios,  renewing  the  heart  of 

the  singer. 

When  his  thirst  he  had  slaked  and  his  thought 

had  returned  to  his  thinking, 
Sweetly  he  lowered  his  voice  to  the  note  of  a  mu 
sical  whisper, 
And  he  bent  forward  his  body  as    if    he    were 

telling  a  secret : 
"  Once,  I  remember,  Chalcon  was  making  a  group 

of  the  Muses, 
Sacred  givers  of  song,  to  be  borne  to  a  festival 

splendid, 
Where     each    singer    had  in  their    presence  to 

sing  for  the  laurel. 
What  do  you  think  he  did  as  I  stood  with  him 

there  in  the  smithy? 


16  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Me  he  turned  into  bronze,  and  put  me  among  the 

Nine  Sisters, 
As  if  I  their  young  brother  might  be,  their  one 

only  brother ; 
In  the  center  he  placed  me,  aye  in  the  heart   of 

the  Muses, 
Sweet  Calliope  kissed  me  there  in  the  workshop 

of  Chalcon, 
Even  in  bronze  I  could  feel  her  embrace    on  that 

day — I  now  feel  it — 
And  I  could  hear  her  soft  breathings  that  told  of 

the  deeds  of  the  Heroes. 
Still  I  can  feel,  e'en  though  I  be  old,  the  kiss  of 

the  Muses, 
And  at  once  I  respond  to  their  music  in  words  of 

my  measures, 

Yielding  my  heart  and  my  voice  to  their  prompt 
ings  and  gentle  persuasion. 

0  good  Chalcon,  memory  keeps  thee  alive,  as  I 

love  thee ! 
Keeps  thee  working  in  me  as  the  maker  who  is 

the  poet; 
Ever   living  thou  art  in  thy  glorious  shapes  of 

Immortals, 
Though  thou,  a  mortal  by  Fate,  hast  gone  to  the 

Houses  of  Hades, 
Whither  I   too  must   soon  go  —  the  call  I  can 

hear  from  the  distance, 

1  too  a  mortal  by  Fate  must  pass  to  the  shades 

of  my  Heroes." 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  POET.       17 

There  he  paused  on  the  tremulous  thought  of  a 

hope  and  a  sorrow, 
And  the  sweet  word  died  away  on  his  lips  thrown 

far  in  the  future. 
Hark!  the  voice  of  a  song  creeps  into  the  house 

of  Homerus, 
Filling  his  home  with  love  and  with  life  to  the 

measure  of  music, 
Fresh  from  the  youth  of  the  heart,  the  fountain 

of  hope  everlasting. 
Though    unseen    the     sweet    singer,    hidden  in 

leaves  of  an  arbor, 
All  the  youths  well  knew  who  it  was,  and  stood 

for  a  moment, 
Bating  the  breath  and  bending  the  head  to  listen 

the  better, 
And  to  quaff  each  note  to  the  full,  for  the  voice 

that  was  singing 
Poured  out  the  soul  of  a  maiden,  the  beautiful 

daughter  of  Homer, 
Whom  those  boys  were  more  eager  to  hear  than 

to  study  their  verses, 
Aye,  more    eager    to    hear  the    daughter  than 

hearken  the  father. 

He,  when  the  strain  had  ceased,  with  a  sigh 

broke  into  the  silence: 

"Ah!  the  fleet  years!  how  like  is  that  note  to 
the  note  of  my  mother, 


18  HOMEB  IN  CHIOS. 

As  she  hymned  to  her   work  or  sang  me  to  sleep 

on  her  pallet ! 
Early  my  father  had  died,  his  face   I  no  longer 

remember, 
But  the  voice  which  speaks  when   I  speak  from 

my  heart  is  always  — 
Well  do  I  know  it  —  the  voice  of  my   mother, 

Cretheis  my  mother  !  ' ' 

Overmastered  a  moment  by  tears,  he  soon 
overmastered 

All  of  the  weaker  man  in  himself,  and  thus  he 
proceeded: 

"  I  was  telling  the  tale  of  the  wonderful  work 
shop  of  Chalcon, 

Where  I  saw  all  the  deities  rise  into  form  in 
a  rapture, 

Coming  along  with  their  sunshine  to  stand  in  the 
soot  of  the  smithy, 

Happy  Olympian  Gods  who  once  fought  and  put 
down  the  dark  Titans. 

Bearing  their  spell  in  my  soul,  I  always  went 
home  to  my  mother, 

And  I  would  beg  her  to  tell  me  who  were  the 
Gods  and  the  Muses, 

All  this  beautiful  folk  whom  Chalcon  had  brought 
from  the  summits, 

From  free  sunny  Olympus  down  into  the  smoth 
ering  smithy. 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  POET.  19 

She  would  begin  with  a  glow  in  her  eyes  and  tell 
me  their  story, 

Meanwhile  plying  the  distaff  —  she  never  could 
help  being  busy  — 

All  of  their  tales  she  knew,  by  the  hundreds  and 
hundreds  she  knew  them, 

Tales  of   the  beings  divine,  once   told  of   their 
dealings  with  mankind, 

When  they  came  to  our  earth  and  visibly  mingled 
with  mortals. 

New   was   always    the    word  on  the   tongue    of 
Cretheis  my  mother, 

Though  she  dozens  of  times  before  had  told  the 
same  story, 

Still  repeating  when  I  would  call  for  it,  ever  re 
peating, 

For  a  good  tale,  like  the  sun,  doth  shine  one  day 
as  the  other. 

What  a  spell  on  her  lip  when  up  from  her  lap  I 
was  looking, 

Watching  her  mouth  in  its  motion,  whence  drop 
ped  those  wonderful  stories ! 

Oft  I  thought  I  could  pick  up  her  word  in  my 
hand  as  it  fell  there, 

Keep  it  and  carry  it  off,  for  my  play  a  most  beau 
tiful  plaything, 

Which  I  could  toss  on  the  air  when  I  chose,  like 
a  ball  or  an  apple, 

Catch  it  again  as  it ^f ell  in  its  flight,  for  the  word 
wa,s  a  thing  then. 


20  HOMES  IN  CHIOS. 

Mark!  what  I  as  a  child  picked  up,  the  old  man 

still  plays  with  : 
Words  made  of  breath,  but  laden  with  thought 

more  solid  than  granite, 
Pictures   of   heroes   in   sound   that   lasts,    when 

spoken,  forever, 
Images   fair  of  the  world  and  marvelous  legends 

aforetime, 
All  of  them  living  in  me  as  they  fell  from  the 

lips  of  my  mother." 

There  he  stopped  for  a  moment  and  passed  his 

hand  to  his  forehead, 
As  if  urging  Mnemosyne  now    for  the  rest  of 

the  story; 
Soon  came  the  Muse  to  the  aid  of  the  poet,  and 

thus  he  continued : 
'*  How  she  loved  the  songs  of   old  Hellas,  and 

loved  all  its  fabling ! 
Well  she  could  fable  herself  and  color  her  speech 

with  her  heart-beats. 
I  have  known  her   to   make  up   a   myth   which 

spread  through  all  Chios, 
Thence  to  island  and  mainland  wherever  Hellenic 

is  spoken. 
Once  I  heard  far  out  by  the  West  in  a  town  of 

Zakynthus, 
At  a  festival  one   of  her  lays,    which  I  knew  in 

my  cradle, 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  POET.  21 

Sung  by  the  bard  of  the  town  as  his  guerdon  of 

song  from  the  Muses. 
Ana  now  let  me  confess,  too,  my  debt,  the  debt 

of  my  genius ! 
Many  a  flash  of  the  fancy  is  hers  which  you  read 

in  my  poems, 
Many  a  roll  of  the  rhythm,  and  many  a  turn  of 

the  language, 
Many  a  joy  she  has  given,  and  many  a  tear  she 

has  dropped  there, 
Merciful  sighs  at  the  stroke  of  grim  Fate  on  the 

back  of  the  mortal  — 
All  are  remembrances  fallen  to   me  from  the  lips 

of  my  mother." 

For  a  moment   he  ceased,  till  he   gathered   his 

voice  into  firmness, 
Smoothing  the  tremulous  trill   that  welled  from 

his  heart  into  wavelets, 
Smoothing  and   soothing  the  quivering  thoughts 

which  Memory  brought  him : 
"  Hard   was  her  lot,    she    had  to   work   daily 

through  Chios  by  spinning, 
For  herself  and  her  boy  she  fought  the  rough 

foes  of  existence, 
Making  her  living  by  toil  that  flew  from  the  tips 

of  her  fingers, 
Deft  and  swift  in  the  cunning   which  gives   all 

its  worth  unto  labor. 


22  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Yet   more  cunning  she  showed   in   spinning  the 

threads  of  a  story 
Till  they  all  came  together  forming  a  garment  of 

beauty, 
Than  in  twirling  the  distaff  and  reeling  the  yarn 

from  the  spindle. 
But  she  too,  my  poor   mother,  was  laid   in   the 

earth,  as  was  fated, 
For   the  Fates  span  out   the  frail  thread  of  her 

life  at  their  pleasure." 

Here  again  the  old  man  made  a  stop  with  a 

gaze  in  his  features 
As  if  prying  beyond  to   behold  the  unspeakable 

secret; 
But  he  came   back  to  himself  with  a   joy  in  his 

look  and  continued : 
66  It  was  she  who  gave  me  the  love   and  the  lore 

of  the  legend, 
Training  my  youth  to  her  song  which   throbbed 

to  the  best  of  the  ages  — 
All  the  great  men  of  the  Past  and  great  women, 

the  mothers  of  Heroes. 
Do  you  know  it  was  she  who   first  told  me  the 

story  of  Thetis  — 
Thetis   the  Goddess-Mother,  whose  son  was  the 

Hero  Achilles  ? 
Tenderly  told  she   the  tale   of  the  boy  who  was 

born  to  do  great  things, 


THE  HAKIMS   OF  THE  POET.       .  23 

Who  from  his  birth  had  in  him  the  spark  divine 

of  his  mother, 
Though  he  had  to  endure  all  the  sorrow  of  being 

a  hero, 
Suffer  the  pang   that   goes  with  the  gift    of   the 

Gods  to  a  mortal. 
Then  in   a  frenzy  of  hope  she  would  clasp  me 

unto  her  bosom, 

Dreaming  the  rest  of  her  dream  in  the  soft  in 
spiration  of  silence, 
Yet  you  could  see  what  it  was  by  the  light  that 

was  lit  in  her  presence, 
See  it  all  by  the  light  of  her  soul  that  shone  from 

her  visage. 

Once  in  her  joy  she  arose   with  her  arms  out 
stretched  mid  her  story, 
Showing  how  Thetis  arose  from  the  deeps  in  a 

cloud  o'er  the  billow, 
That  she>  the  Goddess,  might  secretly  take  her 

son  to  her  bosom, 
To  impart  what  was  best  of  herself — :  the  godlike 

endurance  — 
And  to  arouse  in  him  too  the  new  valor  to  meet 

the  great  trial. 
O  fond  soul  of  my  mother,  how   well  that  day 

I  remember, 
When  thou  toldest  the  tale  of  the  bees  that  flew 

to  my  cradle, 
Dropping  out  of  the  skies  on  a  sudden  along  with 

the  sunbeams, 


24  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Humming  and  buzzing  through  all  of  the  house 

as  if  they  were  swarming, 
Till  they  lit  on  my  lips  as  I  slept  but  never  once 

stung  me, 
Never  stung  thee,  though  running  around  in  thy 

fright  to  defend  me, 
Smiting  and  slashing  with  stick  or  with  rag  or 

whatever  came  handy, 
Scorching  at  last  their  leathery  wings  with  their 

own  waxen  tapers  ! 
But  ere  they  flew,  in  spite  of  the  fire  and  fight  of 

the  household, 

They  had  left  on  my  lips  their  cells  of  the  clear- 
flowing  honey, 
Honey  clear-flowing  and  sweet,  though  bitter  the 

struggle  to  give  it; 
Even  the  bees  had  to  pay  for  giving  the  gift  of 

their  sweetness. 

Thenwertthou  happy,  Cretheis,  then  wertthou 
sad  too,  my  mother, 

Pensive,  forethinking  afar  on  what  the  God  had 
intended, 

Who  had  sent  the  dumb  bee  to  speak  as  a  sign 
unto  mortals. 

What  thy  son  was  to  do  and  endure  flashed  into 
thy  vision, 

Double  that  flash  of  the  future,  joyful,  sorrow 
ful  also, 


THE  MAKING   OF   THE   POET.  25 

And  them  didst  say  to  thyself  and  the  God,  bend 
ing  over  to  kiss  me : 

*  Let  it  fall  —  the  lot  of  his  life  ;  I  feel  what  is 
coming : 

He  must  distil  from  the  earth  into  speech  all  the 
sweetness  of  living, 

He  must  pour  from  his  heart  into  song  all  the 
nectar  of  sorrow ; 

Let  it  fall  —  the  lot  of  his  life;  though  hard  be 
the  trial, 

Always  there  will  be  left  on  his  lips  the  hive  of 
its  honey/  ' 


II. 


The    Call  of  The   Muse. 


(27) 


ARGUMENT. 

Homer  now  tells  the  third  chief  influence  ivhich  helped 
make  him  a  poet.  This  influence  was  the  bard  of  the 
toivn,  Ariston,  who  sang  on  the  borderland  between 
East  and  West,  but  was  not  able  to  sing  of  the  great  con 
flict  between  Troy  and  Greece.  It  was  Ariston  who 
suggested  this  theme  to  Homer,  and  bade  the  youth  go 
out  to  the  sea-shore,  where  was  the  cave  of  the  Muses, 
and  listen  to  the  voice  which  would  speak  to  him  there. 
Calliope,  the  epic  Muse,  appears  to  him,  tells  him  what 
he  must  do  and  suffer,  and  inspires  him  with  his  great 
vocation.  He  goes  home  to  his  mother  and  tells  her 
what  the  Muse  has  said  to  him;  his  mother  after  a  short 
internal  struggle,  bids  him  goat  once  and  follow  the  call 
of  the  Muse. 


(28) 


Thus  to   the  whisper  of  fleeting  Mnemosyne, 

mother  of  Muses, 
Homer   was   yielding  his  heart  and  shaping  her 

shadowy  figures. 
While   he   was  speaking,  rose  up  the  roar  of  the 

sea  in  the  distance, 
Which  an  undertone  gave  to  his  measures,  mighty, 

majestic, 
Wreathing  the  roll  of  its  rhythm  in  words  of  the 

tale  he  was  telling, 
Giving   the    musical  stroke  of  its  waves   to  the 

shore  of  the  island, 
Giving  the  stroke  for   the   song  to  the  beautiful 

island  of  Chios. 

All  the  sea  was  a  speech,  and  spoke  in  the  lan 
guage  of  Homer, 

(29) 


30  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Aye,  the  ^Egean  spoke  Greek,  and  sang  the  re 
frain  of  great  waters, 

All  the  billows  were  singing  that  day  hexameters 
rolling, 

Rolling  afar  from  the  infinite  sea  to  the  garden 
of  Homer. 

Stopped  in  the  stretch  of  his  thought  the  poet 

lay  back  in  his  settle, 
Seemingly  lost  in  the  maze  where  speech  fades  out 

into  feeling ; 
He  was  silent  awhile,  though  not  at  the  end  of 

his  story. 
Aged  and  blind  he  was  now,  recalling  the  days 

of  his  boyhood, 
When  he  saw  all  the  world  of  fair  forms,  as  it 

rose  up  in  Hellas, 
Eise   from  the  hand  of  the  smith  and  rise  from 

the  lips  of  his  mother, 

Saw  too-  himself  in  the  change  of  the  years  be 
coming  the  singer. 

Soon  spake  a  youth  at  his  side,  it  was  the  best 

of  his  pupils, 
Called  Demodocus,  son  of  Demodocus,  Ithacan 

rhapsode, 
Who  belonged  to  an  ancestry  born  into  song  from 

old  ages : 
"Did  you  have  no  bard  of  the  village,  no  teacher 

of  measures, 


THE   CALL   OF   THE  MUSE.  31 

Who  could  melt  the  rude  voice  of  the  people  to 

rhythm  of  music? 
Men  of  that  strain  we  have  in  our  Ithaca,  they 

are  my  clansmen. 
Still  I  follow  the  craft,  and  to  thee,  best  singer, 

I  come  now, 
That  I  be  better  than   they,  far  better  in  song 

than  my  fathers." 

Here  he  suddenly  stopped  and  glanced  out  into 

the  garden, 
For  there  flitted  an    airy  form  of  a  maid  in  the 

distance, 
Going     and     coming    amid    the    flowers — the 

daughter  of  Homer, 
Whom  Demodocus  loved  and  sought  as  the  meed 

of  his  merit, 
He  would  carry  away  not  only  the  verse  of  the 

master, 
But  would  take,  in  the  sweep  of  his  genius,  also 

the  daughter. 
Yet  the  maiden  held  off,  declaring  the  youth  was 

conceited. 

But  the  father  in  words  of  delight  replied  to 

his  scholar: 
"  Well  bethought !  a  good  learner !  thou  thinkest 

ahead  of  the  teacher  ! 
Just  of  the  bard  I  was  going  to  speak,  he  rose  in 

my  mind's  eye 


32  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

Suddenly  with  thy  question  —  the  face  and  the 
form  of  Ariston. 

Every  day  I  went  to  the  place  of  the  market  to 
hear  him  — 

Deep-toned  Ariston,  the  singer  of  praises  to  Gods 
and  to  Heroes, 

Chanting  the  fray  and  the  valorous  deed  in  the 
ages  aforetime, 

While  the  crowd  stood  around  in  reverent  si 
lence  and  listened. 

He  was  the  bard  of  the  town,  he  knew  what  had 
been  and  will  be, 

Knew  the  decree  of  Zeus  and  could  read  it  out  of 
the  Heavens, 

Knew  too,  the  heart  of  man,  and  could  tell  every 
thought  in  its  throbbing. 

At  the  festivals  sang  he  through  all  of  the  ham 
lets  of  Chios, 

He  was  the  voice  of  the  isle,  the  mythical  hoard 
of  old  treasures ; 

Song  and  story  and  fable,  even  the  jest  and  the 
riddle  — 

All  were  his  charge  and  his  choice,  by  the  care 
and  the  call  of  the  Muses. 

High  beat  his  heart  as  he  poured  out  its  music 
singing  of  Heroes, 

Every  word  of  his  voice  was  a  tremulous  pulse- 
beat  of  Hellas, 

Doomf ul  the  struggle  he  saw  in  the  land  and  fate 
ful  its  Great  Men. 


THE    CALL    OF   THE  3IUSE.  33 

Often  he  sang  the  sad  lot  of  Bellerophou,  hero 
of  Argos, 

Who  once  crossed  to  the  Orient,  leaving  the 
mainland  of  Europe, 

Quitting  his  home  in  the  West  for  the  charm  of 
a  Lycian  maiden, 

Daughter  fair  of  the  king  who  dwelt  by  the  ed 
dying  Xanthus. 

Many  a  demon  he  slew,  destroying  the  shapes  of 
the  ugly, 

Savages  tamed  he  to  beautiful  law,  and  the  law, 
too,  of  beauty. 

Monsters,  Chimeras,  wild  men  and  wild  women 
he  brought  to  Greek  order, 

Amazons  haters  of  husbands,  and  Solymi  mount 
aineers  shaggy. 

But  the  Hero,  for  such  is  his  fate,  sank  to  what 
he  subjected, 

In  the  success  of  his  deed  he  lapsed  and  fell  under 
judgment, 

Hateful  to  Gods  is  success,  though  much  it  is 
loved  by  us  mortals, 

Victory  is  the  trial,  most  hard  in  the  end  to  the 
victor. 

Such   was  the  strain   of  Ariston,  here  on   the 

borderland  singing 
Where  two  continents  stand  and  look  with  a  scowl 

at  each  other 
Over  the  islanded  waters,  ready  to  smite  in  the 

struggle. 


31  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

Every  Greek  in  our  Chios  then  heard   Bellero- 

phon's  echo, 
Heard  in  the  deep-sounding  name  of  the  Hero  an 

echo  that  thrilled  him, 
Felt  in  his  bosom  the  reverberation  of  Bellero- 

phontes, 
For  he  could  find  in  himself  the  same  peril  of 

lapsing  from  Hellas, 
Sinking  to  Asia  back  from  the  march  of  the  world 

to  the  westward." 

Sympathy  touched  in  its  tenderest  tone  the 

voice  of  Homerus, 
As  his  words  sank  down  at  the  end  of  the  line  to 

a  whisper, 
Then  to  a  silence,  the  silence  of  thought,  which 

spoke  from  his  presence. 
What  was  the  matter  with  Homer,  and  why  that 

shadow  in  sunshine? 
Did  he  find  in  his  own  Greek  soul  a  gleam  of  the 

danger? 
Did  his  poetical  heart  then  enter  the  trance  of 

temptation  ? 
He  must  respond  to  the  passion,  aye  to  the  guilt, 

in  his  rapture, 
He  must  glow  with  the  deed  of  the  Hero,  even 

the  wrongful, 

Never  forgetting  the  law,  and  sternly  pronounc 
ing  the  judgment. 


THE   CALL   OF   THE  MUSE.  35 

Soon  he  rallied  and  rose,  and  his  voice  returned 

with  his  story : 
"  Well  I  knew  the  old  man  and  eagerly  stored  up 

his  treasures, 
Aged  Ariston  loved  me,  and  made  me  his  daily 

companion, 
I  was  his  scholar,  perchance,  as  ye  are  now  in  my 

training. 
Once  in  a  mutual  moment  of  freedom  I  ventured 

to  ask  him  : 
'  O  my  Ariston,  sing  me   to-day  the   new  song 

of  our  nation, 
Born  of  the  deed,  the  last  great  deed  we  have  all 

done  together, 
All  the  Hellenes  have  done  it,  methinks,  in  the 

might  of  one  impulse, 

Fighting  our  destiny's  fight  to  possess  and  pre 
serve  the  new  future, 
Saving  the  beautiful  woman  and  saving  ourselves 

in  her  safety ; 
That  is  the  deed  of  Troy  and  its  lay  of  the  Hero 

Achilles ! 
Seek  not  so  far  for  an  action  when  near  in  thy 

way  is  the  greatest.' 

Thus  I  spake,  and  his  face  on  the  spot  turned 

into  a  battle. 

'  Ah ! '    he  replied  '  too   near  me    it   lies,   just 
that  is  the  hindrance  ! 


36  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

I   must  leave  it  behind  to  another,  for  I  cannot 

touch  it ; 
Still  my  heart  is   cleft  by  that  terrible  struggle 

asunder, 
Wounded  I  was  in  the  strife,  remediless  still  I  am 

bleeding, 
Cureless    I   feel   it  to  be  —  that  wound  of   the 

Greeks  and  the  Trojans  ! 
I  was  on  both  sides  during  the  war,  and  yet  upon 

neither, 
Standing  aloof  from  each,  yet  standing  with  one 

and  the  other, 
With  father  Priam  of  Troy  as  well  as  with  Greek 

Agamemnon  — 
Tossed  to  this  part  or  that,  and  torn  into  shreds 

by  the  Furies; 
Greeks  had  my  brain  on  their  side,  the  Trojans 

had  hold  of  my  heart-strings  ; 
With  that  breach  in  my  soul,  how  could  I  make 

any  music? 
I  cannot  stand  the  stress,  the  horrible  stress  of 

the  struggle 
Always  renewed  in  my  song  whose  every  word  is 

a  blood-stain. 
But  hereafter  the  man  will  arise  who  is  able  to 

sing  it, 
Healing  the  wound   in   himself    and   the   time, 

which  in  me  is  unhealing; 
One  shall  come  and  sing  of  that  mightiest  deed 

of  the  Argives, 


THE    CALL    OF   THE  MUSE.  37 

He  shall  arise,  the  poet  of  Hellas  —  the  man  hath 

arisen 
Who  will  take  it  and  mould  it  and  make  it  the 

song  of  the  ages. 
Youth,  be  thou  singer  of  Troy  and  the  war  for 

the  beautiful  Helen, 
Sing  of  the  Hero  in  wrath,  and   reconciled    sing 

of  the  Hero ! ' 

Thus  spoke  Ariston  the  bard ;   what  a  life  he 
started  within  me ! 

Chaos  I  was,  but  the  sun  of  a  song  had  smitten 
the  darkness, 

And  my  soul  bore  a  universe,  with  one  word  as  a 
midwife, 

That  was  the  word  of  the  poet,  who  spoke    as 
the  maker  primeval, 

Calling  the  sun  and  the  earth  from  the  void,  and 
the  firmament  starry. 

Always  welfare  he  brought  to  the    people  who 
hearkened  his  wisdom, 

And  he  was  ever  alive  with  the  thought  of  bring 
ing  a  blessing, 

Climbing  the  height  of  the  highest  Gods,  where 
dwells  freedom  from  envy. 

After  deep  silence,  the  mother  of  good,  he  sol 
emnly  added: 

*  Now  is    the  moment  to   seek  the    divinity's 
sign  for  thy  calling, 


38  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Godlike  the  token  must  be,  for  of  Gods  is   the 

breath  of  the  singer  ; 
Go  to  the  grot  of  the  sweet-voiced  Muses  down 

by  the  sea-side 

Where  old  Nereus  scooped  out  of  stone  his  son 
orous  cavern, 
Sounding  the  strains  of  a  lyre  that  is  played  by 

the  hands  of  great  waters, 
As  they  incessantly  strike  on  the  sands  and  the 

shells  and  the  rock  walls, 
Reaching  out  from  the   heart  of  the  sea  for   a 

stroke  of  their  fingers, 
Just  for  one  stroke  of  their  billowy  fingers,  then 

broken  forever, 
Playing   the  notes  of   a  song  that  can  only  be 

heard  by  a  poet. 
There  thou  wilt  hear,  if  it  also  be  thine,  the  voice 

of  the  Muses, 
Who   will  give  thee  their  golden  word  and  the 

high  consecration ; 
But  if  it  be  not  within  thee  already,  they  will  be 

silent, 
Silence  is  the  command  of  the  God  to  seek  them 

no  further ; 
Then  thou  wilt  hear  in  their  house  by  the  sea  but 

a  roar  and  a  rumble, 
But  a  roar  and  a  rumble   of  godless    waters  in 

discord; 
Wheel  about  in  thy  tracks,  perchance  thou  wilt 

make  a  good  cobbler.' 


THE   CALL    OF   THE   MUSE.  39 

Not  yet  cold  was  the  word  when  I  started  and 

came  to  the  cavern, 
Set  with  many  a  glistening  gem  overhead  in  the 

ceiling, 
Decked   with   sculpture  of  stone    cut  out  on  its 

sides  by  the  Naiads, 
Making  a   gallery  fair  of  the  forms  of  the  Gods 

of  the  waters, 
Kound  whose  feet  mid  the  tangle  and  fern  were 

playing  the  mermaids, 
Smiting  the  wine-dark  deep,  as  they  dived  from 

the  sight  of  the  sea-boys. 
Smiting  the  blue-lit  billows   above  into  millions 

of  sparkles, 
Into  millions  of  cressets  that  lit   up  the  cavern 

like  starlight, 
Secret  cavern  of  love  for  the  nymphs,  the  watery 

dwellers, 
Echoing  music  afar  of  the  kiss  of  the  earth  and 

the  ocean. 
Well  I  knew  the   recess   for   often  before  I   had 

been  there, 

Oft  I  had  heard  the  report  that  told  of  the   sil 
very  swimmers, 
Told  of  the  maidens   and  youths  who  loved  far 

under  the  billows, 
Loved  one  another  far  under  the  billows  and  sang 

the  sweet  love  song, 
Swimming  around  in  the  grots  and  the  groves  of 

deep  Amphitrite, 


40  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Or  reclining  to  rest  on  the  couch  of  the  pearl  or 

the  coral. 

There  I  had  seen  in  the  sunset  the  car  of  hoary 
Poseidon, 

Skimming  across  the  wave  with  his  train  to  his 
watery  temple 

Over  the  golden  bridge  of  the  sunbeams  that  lay 
on  the  ripples, 

Bridge  that  lay  on  the  ripples  ablaze  in  the  sheen 
of  Apollo, 

Spanning  the  stretch  of  the  sea  from  Chios  away 

to  the  sundown. 

There  I  had  seen  old  Proteus,  changeful  God  of 
the  waters, 

Forming,  transforming   himself,  the    one,  into 
shapes  of  all  being, 

Into  the  leaf- shaking  tree  and  into  the  shaggy- 
manecl  lion, 

Creeping  reptile,  blazing  fire,  and  flowing  water; 

Still   I   saw   him,  the   one  and  the  same,  under 
neath  all  his  changes. 

There  I  had  seen  the  beautiful  Nereid,  daugh 
ter  of  Nereus, 

Chased  by  the  sinuous  Triton,  the  man  of  the  sea 
in  his  passion, 

Who  would  snort  in  his  fury  whenever  the  mer 
maid  escaped  him, 

Spouting  the  foam  of  his  rage  up  into  the  face 
of  the  heavens, 


THE   CALL    OF   THE  MUSE.  41 

Rising  and  shaking  his  billowy  curls  and  blowing 
his  sea-horn. 

There  I  lay  down  on  a  pallet  of  stone  and  slid 

into  slumber, 
While  I  was  sleeping,  stood  up  before  me  a  troop 

of  fair  women, 
Nine  of  them,  sisters  who  sang  in  a  circle,  they 

were  the  Muses, 
Singing  along  with    their  mother,   Mnemosyne, 

who  was  the  tenth  one, 
Who  would  always  give  them  the    hint  of  the 

matter  and  music, 
Looking  backward    she   grave  to   the  Muses  the 

O  O 

beat  of  the  present. 
Soon  they  arose  into  beautiful  shapes  from  the 

strains  of  the  cavern, 
Quite   as  once  I  had    seen  them    arise    in    the 

smithy  of  Chalcon, 
Taking   divinity's    form  in    the  strokes    of  his 

dexterous  hammer. 

One  of  them    stepped    from    the    group,    alto 
gether  the  tallest  and  fairest, 
And  she  kissed  me ;  it  was  Calliope  who  in  the 

cavern 
Gave  me  again  the    sweet    kiss    that  I    felt    in 

the  smoke  of  the  smithy; 
But  her  lips  began  moving  with    words  in  the 

twilight  of  dreamland, 


42  BOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

And  with  a  smile  she  stretched  out  her  hand  and 

spake  me  her  message  : 
*  Hail,  O  son  of  Cretheis,  doubly  the  son  of  thy 

mother, 
Son  of  her  mythical  soul  and  son  of  her  beautiful 

body, 
Hearken,    dear  youth,  to  our  call,  for  thou  hast 

been  chosen  the  master, 
Thee   we   endow  with  all  of  our  gifts  of  speech 

and  of  spirit, 
But  take  heed  of  the  warning,  henceforth  be  ready 

to  suffer ; 
Mark  it !     along  with  each  gift  the  Gods  have  a 

penalty  given, 
For  each   good  that   they   grant  unto   mortals, 

strict  is  the  payment; 
Not    without   toil  is  the  gift  of  the  Muses,  not 

without  sorrow ; 
Nay,  a  Fury  is  thine,  called  Sympathy,  rending 

thy  bosom, 
Making  the  fate  of  the  human  thine  own  in  the 

song  which  thou  singest ; 
Into  the  stroke  of  thy  heart   we  have  put  each 

pang  of  the  mortal, 
Which  will   throb  and  respond  in  a  strain  to  the 

cry  of  the  victim ; 
Answer  thou  must  in   agony  every  twinge  of  his 

torture, 
Pass   through  his  sorrow  of  soul,  and  leap  with 

the  sting  of  his  body  ; 


THE   CALL    OF   THE  MUSE.  43 

And  when  he  goes  down  to  death,  thou  living 

must  go  along  with  him, 
Go  to  the  uttermost  region  beyond  the  line  of 

the  sunset, 
Living   descend  to   the  dead  and  speak   in    the 

Houses  of  Hades. 
Now  thou  must  wander;   thy  path  runs  over 

each  mountain  of  Hellas, 

Over  the  river  and  plain  to  the  site  of  each  ham 
let  and  city, 
That  thou  see  all  its  people   and  hear  them  tell 

their  own  story ; 
Not  till  then  art  thou  fitted  to  sing  the  great  song 

of  Achsea. 
First  to  Troy  thou  must  pass    and  look  at  the 

plain  and  the  ruins, 
Thou  wilt  hear  on  the  air  the  fierce   clangor  of 

arms  in  the  onset, 
Hear  the  groans  of  the  wounded,  the  shouts  of 

the  victor  and  vanquished, 
Hear  the  voice  of  the  graves  by  the  shore  of  the 

blue  Hellespontus. 
Still  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  are  fighting,  will  fight 

there  forever  ! 
Catch  the  fleet  flight  of  their  words  in  thy  strain, 

in  its  adamant  fix  them, 
Make  adamantine  the  speech  of  the  spectres  by 

rolling  Scamander. 
Also  the  Gods  thou  must  see    descending  from 

lofty  Olympus, 


4i  HOMER  IX  CHIOS. 

Aiding  one  side  or  the  other,  inspiring  this  hero 

or  that  one, 
Nay,  they   must  fight   on    Olympus,    the    Gods 

must  have  too  a  battle, 
But  forget  not  omnipotence  —  high  above  all  of 

them  Zeus  sits. 
'Tis  our  vision  we  grant  thee,  to  spy  out  their 

forms  in  the  ether, 
As  they  flit  hither  a  thought  of  the  mortal,  but 

yet  a  God  too!' 

Loftily    spoke    the    grand    Muse,    when    she 
changed  to  a  look  of  compassion, 

Which  made  me  weep  for  myself  as  again  she 
began  to  forecast  me  : 

<  O,  the  hard  law  which  for  good  the  divine  must 
lay  on  the  human ! 

For  thy  vision  celestial  the  penalty  too  must  be 
given, 

In  return  for  the  boon  thou  must  yield  thy  ter 
restrial  vision, 

Sight  at  last  in  old  age  will  be  weighed  and  be 
paid  for  thy  insight. 

Poverty  thou   must  endure   on  the  way  for  the 
cause  of  thy  poem, 

Thine  is  to  hunger  in  body  and  thine  to  suffer  in 
spirit, 

Still  kind  hands  will  reach  thee  a  morsel  where- 
over  thou  singest, 


THE    CALL    OF   THE  MUSE.  45 

Kindred  souls  will  speak  thee  a   word    of  sweet 

recognition, 
Then  go  further  and  sing,  though  at  first  nobody 

may  listen, 
Further  and  further  and  sing  till  the  end  has  been 

sung  of  thy  journey. 
Hard  is  thy  lot,   I  warn  thee  —  the  lot  of  the 

God-gifted  singer, 
But   it   cannot   be   shunned  —  to    shun    it    were 

death  without  dying. 
Go  now,  get  thee  ready  at  once,  and  set  out  on 

thy  travels.' 

Roused  by  the  voice  of  command  I  awoke  in  a 

swirl  of  the  senses, 
Homeward  I  hastened,  reflecting  how    I   might 

break  to  my  mother 
What  I  had  heard  in  a  swound  from  the  Muses 

so  fateful,  foretelling 

Sad  departure,  ordaining  divinely  the   long  sep 
aration. 
Great  was  her  joy  at   the    marvelous   tale,  and 

great  was  her  sorrow, 
Tear  was  fighting  with  tear  in  a  war  of   delight 

and  of  anguish, 
Till  in  the  masterful  might  of  her  heart  she  rose 

up  and  bade  me : 
'  Go  my  son,  start  to-day,  thou  must  follow  the 

call  of  the  Muses, 


46  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Suffer  whatever  of  weal  and  of  woe  the  Goddesses 

give  thee ; 
Thou  wast  the  hope  of  my  life,  but  gladly  I  shall 

thee  surrender, 
Follow  the  call  of  the  Muses,  I  can  still  spin  for 

a  living.'  " 


m. 


The  Daughter  of  Homer. 


(47) 


ARGUMENT. 

Wliile  Homer  is  telling  to  the  youths  the  story  of  his 
early  life,  his  daughter  Praxilla,  who  has  hitherto  been 
kept  in  the  background,  appears  and  begs  that  she  be 
allowed  to  share  in  the  school  and  in  the  gifts  of  her 
father.  /She  refuses  all  the  allurements  of  love  till  this 
right  be  accorded  her.  Homer  grants  her  petition,  and 
finds  in  her  words  a  strong  note  plainly  indicating 
the  future.  Then  they  all  move  to  the  shrine  of 
Apollo,  and  the  poet  prays  the  God  fvr  light  within, 
and  also  prays  for  the  God,  who  is  still  to  unfold. 


(48) 


Strong  and  firm  yet  tender  in  tone  had  spoken 

Homerus, 
Ever  the  son  of  his  mother  and  born  each  day  of 

her  spirit, 
Merely  the  thought  of  her  brought  back  the  sight 

to  his  eyes,  though  he  saw  not, 
And  to  his  vision,  though  shut  to  the  world,  her 

shape  had  arisen, 
Speaking  the  long  and  the  last  farewell  as  he  left 

her  to  travel, 
Speaking  the  words  which  Memory,   shyest  of 

Muses,  had  whispered. 

Of  a  sudden  he  stopped,  borne  off  by  the  tide 

of  his  feelings, 

Out  of  the  region  of  speech,  which  died  like  a 
beautiful  music 

4  (49) 


50  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Far  on  the  hills,  with  echoes  repeating  them 
selves  on  his  heart-strings, 

As  he  hearkened  that  voice  which  can  only  be 
heard  in  its  silence. 

Always  the  poet  responds  to  the  lightest  touch  of 
his  poem, 

In  it  the  music  he  hears,  and  also  the  music  be 
yond  it, 

For  two  strains  his  measures  must  have,  both 
singing  together, 

One  of  mortals  and  earth,  the  other  of  Gods  and 
Olympus, 

One  of  gloom  and  of  fate,  the  other  of  light  and 
of  freedom. 

Priest  though  he  be  at  the  altar  of  song,  he  is  also 
the  victim, 

And  he  yields  up  his  heart  to  the  battle  of  joy 
and  of  sorrow. 

Homer,  sovereign  singer,  was  weaving  the 
strands  of  his  storj^, 

Weaving  together  the  threads  of  his  life  as  he  sat 
in  his  garden, 

Where,  on  the  path  of  the  sea  to  the  East,  the  is 
land  of  Chios 

Up  from  the  waters  throbs  to  the  rise  and  the 
fall  of  the  billows, 

Being  itself  but  a  petrified  fragment  of  sea 
born  music, 


THE  DAUGHTER   OF  HOMER.  51 

Which  was  sung  into  stone  with  its  notes  at  their 
sweetest  vibration. 

Over  the  slant  and  the  summit  the  fruitage  is  hav 
ing  a  frolic, 

Oranges  coated  with  gold  and  olives  sparkling  in 
silver, 

Playing  in  Hoods  of  the  sun  that  pour  from  the 
sky  to  the  island, 

Whose  new  ardent  blood  is  flowing  to  juice  of  the 
wine-press. 

Heart-beats  of  stormiest  stone  you  can  feel  every 
where  to  the  hill-tops, 

Heaving  the  vehement  earth  till  it  rises  from 
slope  into  summit, 

While  the  fiery  soil  is  transmuted  to  grapes  in 
the  vineyard, 

Which  reveal  the  red  rage  of  the  God  in  the 
sparks  of  their  droplets. 

Pulses  of  passionate  air  you  can  breathe  every 
where  in  the  island, 

Lifting  the  rapturous  soul  into  love  of  the  youth 
and  the  maiden, 

Which  breaks  forth  into  strains  in  answer  to 
valley  and  mountain. 

Every  look  is  a  chorus  of  sea  and  of  earth  and 
of  heaven, 

All  of  the  isle  is  a  song  as  it  sways  in  the  sweep 
of  its  ridges, 

And  keeps  time  to  the  up  and  the  down  of  the 
beat  of  a  master, 


52  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

Tuning  the  sea  and  the  land  to  vast  undulations 

of  music, 
Notes  of  the  strain  that  rose  from  the  voice  of 

the  singer  primeval 
When  he  created  the  land  and  the  sea  and  the 

firmament  starry. 

In  the  heart  of  this  musical  isle,  his  birth-place, 

sat  Homer, 
And  around  him  stood  youths  from  the  east  and 

the  west  of  all  Hellas, 
In  a  trance  of  the  Muses  carried   along  by  his 

numbers, 
Yielding  their   souls  unto   his  to   be  shaped    to 

that  harmony  splendid. 
Nor  from  that  group  of  fair  youths  could  Eros 

be  rightfully  absent, 
Eros,  the  God  of  Love,  had  his  shrine,   as  his 

wont  is,  in  secret 
There  in  the  garden  of  Homer  who,  though  shut 

in  his  eye-sight, 

Could  behold   each  deity  present,  however  dis 
guised. 

Suddenly  all  of  the  eyes  of  the  youths  were 

turned  from  the  singer, 
And  to  the  tune  of  new  measures  were  shooting 

poetic  scintillas, 
Rolling  sidelong  in  fiery  joy,  yet  trying  to  hide 

it, 


THE  DAUGHTER   OF  HOMER.  53 

Flinging  millions  of  sparkles  over  the  form  of  a 

maiden, 
Very  beautiful  maiden,  who  entered  the  gate  of 

the  garden. 
Out    of   her   hiding   she  moved,  emerging  from 

leaves  of  her  arbor, 
Like  a  Goddess  she  came,  who  has  sped  from  the 

heights  of  Olympus 
Down  to  the  longing  earth,  to  appear  the  divine 

unto  mortals. 

Forward  she  stepped  to  the  group  without  stop 
ping,  and  came  to  its  center  ; 
All  of  the  youths  were  lighting  her  path  with 

their  looks  as  she  passed  them, 
Making   the   twinkle    of   starlight   there  in    the 

blaze  of  the  sunlight. 
With  a  reverent  glance  she  touched  the  lean  hand 

of  the  poet, 
Yet  the   look  of  resolve  gave  strength  to  her 

face  in  its  sweetness, 
Softly  obedience  shone  just  while  her  own  way 

she  was  going. 
Standing  behind  him  she  pressed  the  bloom  of 

her  cheek  to  his  forehead, 
Koses  of  life  seemed  to  suddenly  shoot  from  the 

furrows  of  wisdom, 

And  to  her  father  thus  spake  Praxilla  the  daugh 
ter  of  Homer, 
While  her  strong  sweet  lips  gave  a  kiss  which 

sounded  heroic : 


54  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

"  Father,  suffer  me  also  to  come  to  thy  knees 

and  to  listen ; 
I  would  learn  who  thou  art  before  thou  pass  from 

this  sunshine, 
Soon  thou  must  go,  methinks,  with  the  Days,  the 

daughters  of  Phoebus, 
Go  with  the  beautiful  Days  far   over  the  sea  to 

the  sundown. 
I  am  the  daughter  of  Homer,  hardly  I  know  yet 

my  father; 
Do  not  deny  me  the  hope  of  my  soul  which    of 

thine  is  begotten. 
Great  is   my  longing  to   hear  of  what  thou    art 

saying  and  singing ; 
Why  should  men  not  share  with  the  women  their 

lore  and  their  wisdom  ? 
None  the  less  will  you  have,  and  we  shall  gain 

much  by  your  bounly  ; 
We  shall  be  worthy  of  you,  and  you  will  receive 

the  full  blessing. 
Long   I   have  patiently  kept  in    my  bower,   my 

beautiful  bower, 
Covered  with  blossom  and  branch  and  filled  with 

the  fragrance  of  Nature, 
Which  thou  nobly  gavest  me  once  —  it  seems  long 

ago  now  — 
Thoughtful  the   gift  was  and  kind,  but  to-day  I 

can  stay  there  no  longer. 
As  I  listened   within  it,  hidden  in  leaves  and  in 

branches, 


THE   DAUGHTER   OF  HOMER.  55 

Wreathed    around  and  around  in  its  flowers  and 

clasped  in  its  tendrils, 
I  resolved  to  go  forth  and  to  claim  my  heritage 

also, 
Heritage  equal  of  legend  and  song  which  are  all 

thy  possessions. 
Hear   me,  O  Father !     thy  child,  I  am  come  to 

know  of  thy  knowledge, 
I  am  come  to  thy  school  to  learn  if  I  be  the  true 

heiress, 
And  to  say  the  one  word  which   long  has  been 

growing  within  me, 
Not  yet  mature,  but  this  day  it  is  ripe  and  must 

drop  from  my  lips  now: 
Child  of  thy  body  I  am,  I  seek  to  be  child  of  thy 

spirit, 
I,    not    knowing  my    father,  am   not  the   true 

daughter  of  Homer." 

Mild  was  the    mien,  yet  strong  was  the  word 

which  the  maiden  had  uttered, 
Gentle  the  note   of  her  voice,  suppressing  softly 

a  quiver, 
Yet  betraying  a  wavering  line  in  response  to  her 

heart-beats, 
Which  sank  down  with  her  modesty,  yet  swelled 

up  with  her  purpose, 
Heedful   of   men  in  her  presence,  but   of  their 

scoffing  defiant, 


50  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

To  her  father  dutiful,  yet  her  own  way  she  must 
go  too. 

All  of  the  youths  admired  and  looked,  she  re 
turned  not  their  glances, 
Was  there  not  one  whom  she  in  her  heart  already 

had  chosen  — 
One  of  those  beautiful  youths,    the    flower   of 

Hellas  and  Asia  ? 
See  how  handsome  they  stand  in  a  group,  as  if 

they  were  God-born, 

Gathered  now  on  Olympus,  rejoicing  their  par 
ents  immortal ! 
Still  not  a  look  from  the  maiden  that  way  !  not 

a  glance  of  sly  favor  ! 
How  can  she  help  it?  But  not  a  beam  hath  she 

dropped  there  among  them. 
Say,   has   Nature    lost   her   authority    over   the 

maiden? 
Once  revenges  were  wreaked  on  the  rebel,  double 

revenges, 
Love  which  rejects  will  feel  too  the  pang  of  being 

rejected, 
Twofold  the  wound  which  Eros  inflicts  if  you  tear 

out  his  arrow. 
Mark  how  the  generous  summers  of  Chios  have 

given  their  bounty, 
Given  their  hidden  command  in  the  warmth  of  a 

Southern  climate, 
But  the  command  is  not  heard,  is  defied  by  the 

daughter  of  Homer. 


THE  DAUGHTER   OF  HOMER.  5< 

Subtle  and  sinuous  are  the  retreats  in  the  heart 

of  a  maiden 
Where  she  hides  herself,   unconsciously  testing 

the  gold  there ; 
Labyrinth  hopeless  it  is   to   dozens  of  fairest  of 

suitors, 
Yet  its  clew  is  simple  —  merely  the    love  of  the 

right  one, 
When  he  happens  along,  as    he  certainly  will,  on 

her  pathway ; 
Yes,  he  will  come,  though  we  cannot  tell  when  — 

to-day  or  to-morrow  ; 
Thinking  or  thoughtless,  guilty   or  guileless,  lo  ! 

he  is  chosen, 
And  the  rest,  much  better   perchance,  march  off 

under  judgment ; 
Just   he,  nobody   else,    and    the  reason  without 

any  reason, 
Sent  from  above  he  must  be,  it  is  said,  yet   sent 

by  himself  too, 
Helped  divinely  she  is,  in  going  the  way  that  she 

pleases, 
Providence  brings  them  together,  and  both  have 

done  what  they  wanted. 
See  the  two  Gods,  within  and  without !  they  have 

met  and  are  kissing, 
Eros  and  Psyche  have  met   and  are    kissing,  the 

spirits  immortal, 
Long  before  the  two  mortals  have  tasted  the  lips 

of  each  other. 


58  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

But   not   so   it    runs  now   in   the   tale  of  the 

daughter  of  Homer, 
Now  the   law  seems  changed  —  and  yet  we   can 

hardly  believe  it; 
Strange  desire  she   has  to  share  in   the   lore  and 

the  legend, 
Firmly  refusing  to  listen  to-day  to   the   whisper 

of  Eros, 
Who  is  wont  to  be  hinting   to  maidens  his  secret 

suggestion, 
And  to  speak  with  his  face  hid  in  clouds  till  he 

dare  be  discovered. 
Now  she  will  take  her  part  of   the  gifts  from  her 

father  descended, 
Dimly   dreaming   perchance  that   she   hereafter 

may  need  them; 
She  will  learn  the  old  songs  which   treasure  th6 

wisdom  of  peoples, 
Learn  the   story  of  heroes  tried  in    the  failure 

and  triumph, 

Learn  the  story  of   women,  unf alien,  fallen,  for 
given, 
Faithful  Penelope,   dire   Clytemnestra,  beautiful 

Helen ; 
She  too  will  sing,  remaining  forever  the  daughter 

of  Homer. 

Gently  the  poet  groped  for  her  hand,  reaching 
out  with  his  fingers, 


THE  DAUGHTER   OF  HOMER.  59 

Found  it  and  laid  it  in   his  with  a  satisfied  look, 

then  addressed  her : 
"  Daughter   methinks  thy    voice   has   suddenly 

changed  from  thy  childhood, 
Yesterday  thou  wert  a  girl,  to-day  thou  art  wholly 

the  woman, 
I  can  hear  in   thy  tones   once  more  the  voice  of 

my  mother. 

Thine  is  the  voice  of  Cretheis,  when  she  was  tell 
ing  a  story, 
Sweet  are  the  turns  of  thy  tongue  in  talking  our 

living  Hellenic, 
And  yet  seeming  to  speak  just  to  me  from  u  world 

resurrected, 
Building  anew  out  of  speech    the    rainbows    of 

youthful  remembrance. 
But   a  difference,  too,  I  can  hear  —  thy  words 

are  the  stronger, 
Yes,   far  stronger  are  thine  thar.   the  words  of 

Cretheis  my  mother, 
Who  could  fable  the  past  and  loved   antiquity's 

custom  ; 
Stronger  I  deem  them  than  Helen's,  which   held 

in  their  spell  all  Achsea. 

They  do  not  dwell  in  old  clays,  nor  do  they    de 
lay  in  the  present, 
They  belong  not  here  in  our  Chios,   belong  not 

in  Hellas, 
But  reach  out  to  a  time  and  a  land  somewhere  in 

the  distance, 


60  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Dreamily  rising  this  moment,  I  see,  out  the   fog 

of  the  future, 
Faintly  lifted  to  life  in  the  light  of  the  beams  of 

Apollo, 
Who  has  whirled  in  his  chariot  over  the  arch    of 

our  heavens, 

And,  now  facing  the  West,  is  scanning  the   far 
thermost  Ocean. 
List !  I  bid  thee  to  come  when    done  is  the  duty 

of  household, 
Come  when  thou  wilt  and  stay  when  thou  canst, 

both  now  and  hereafter, 
Freely   unfold  what  is   in  thee  to  all   that  ever. 

thou  canst  be. 
Travel  thou   must  thine  own  way  of  life  as  thy 

father  before  thee, 
Be  thou  child   of   my  spirit,  be  thou  heiress  of 

Homer, 
Follow  the  path  of  the  Sun  round  the  world,  and 

that  be  thy  journey." 

Scarce  had  he  uttered  the  word,  when  stately 

he  rose  from  the  settle, 
Full  of  the  thought  he  had  spoken    he    shone   in 

each  line  of  his  visage  ; 
Then  he  moved  to  the  place  where  stood   in  his 

garden  an  altar, 
For,  though  blind,  he  knew  well  the  way  to  the 

shrine  of  the  Light-God. 


THE  DAUGHTER   OF  HOMEE.  61 

After   him  moved  the   daughter   and  youths  in 

holy  procession, 
Solemn,    slow-stepping,   while   stainlessly  white 

fell  the  folds  of  their  garments ; 
When  they  had  gathered  about  him  and  stood  in 

a  worshipful  silence, 
Hopeful  he  turned  to  the  sky,  rolled  upward  his 

sightless  eyeballs, 
Seeking  the  face  of  the  God    that  shone  as  the 

sun  in  the  heavens, 
And  he  prayed  his  soul's  prayer,  with  might  of 

an  instant  fulfillment: 
"  O   Apollo,    bearer   of   all  that  is  good    to    us 

mortals, 
Bearer  of  light  to  the  Earth  and  of  sight  to  the 

soul  in  thy  presence, 
God  of  the  luminous  look  that  darts  to  the  past 

and  the  future, 
And  doth  shine  on  the  present  forever,  creating 

it  daily ! 
Shed  still  over  the  Earth  thy  light,  though  to  me 

thou  deny  it ; 
Build  thy  arch  of  pure  beams  each  day  round  the 

heavens  above  us, 
Spend  thy  blessing  on  others,   though  I  be  not 

able  to  take  it ; 
Hold  overhead  as  our  lamp  and   our   shield  thy 

canopy  golden, 

And,  as  thou  risest  upon  the  beautiful  world  out 
side  me, 


62  HOMEE  IN   CHIOS. 

Rise  and  illumine  the  world,  the  dim    world  that 

is  lying  within  me ! 
Deity  though  thou  be,  for  thee  also  I  lift   up  my 

prayer ; 
Thou  unfold  in  thyself  while  I   too  in   thee  am 

unfolding, 
More    and  more   may  thy  light  be  transformed 

from  the  outer  to  inner, 

Till  thou  be  risen  from  godship  of  nature  to  god- 
ship  of  spirit. 
Then  through  thee  may  the  song  that  I  sing  be 

reborn  in  the  ages, 
Ever  reborn  unto  men  in  the  sheen  of   thy  spirit, 

O  Light-God!" 

All  the  youths  prayed  the  prayer  of  Homer, 

the  daughter  prayed  with  them, 
In  low  tones  of  devotion  that  speak  to  the  deity 

present, 
Standing  full  in  the  sheen  of  the  sun  by  the  shrine 

of  Apollo, 
Who  from  his  way  in  the  West,  threw  back  his 

glances  propitious, 
Warming  the  words  of  the  poet,  and  making  the 

moments  all  golden. 


IV. 


The  Stranger  of  Northland. 


(63) 


ARGUMENT. 

At  this  point  a  stranger  appears  in  the  school  of 
Homer,  not  a  Greek  or  Asiatic,  but  a  Barbarian,  so 
called,  from  the  far  northwest.  He  has  come  to  learn 
something  about  Homer,  having  had  some  previous  in 
formation  from  a  Greek  captive  whom  he  had  taken  in 
war.  The  stranger  wishes  to  carry  Homer's  poetry  — 
the  whole  of  it,  and  not  some  fragments  —  to  his  people, 
and  hand  it  down  to  the  future.  Meantime  PraxiUa, 
the  daughter  of  Homer,  listens  to  the  story  of  the  stranger 
'with  an  interest  never  felt  before,  and  she  neglects  for  a 
moment  her  household  duties  in  her  eagerness  to  see  and 
hear  him.  Homer  and  the  scholars,  after  trying  in  vain 
to  pronounce  the  rough  gutturals  of  his  name,  salute  him 
by  the  Greek  title  of  Hesperion. 


(64) 


Scarce  to  the  God  of  the  Light  had  they  ended 

their  powerful  prayer, 
And  looked  up  from  their  service  divine  with  a 

sense  of  their  freedom, 
Lo,  a  stranger  arrives,  a  youth  still  dusted  with 

travel, 
Yet  with  a  glow  of  new  gladness  that  told  of  a 

journey  completed. 

"  Look,  who  is  that?"  the  scholars  were  whis 
pering  each  to  the  other, 
"  Homerid  novel  he  is,  just  come  from  Barbary 

distant ; 
Wonder  if  he  have  a  tongue  in  his  mouth  that 

can  trill  the  Greek  accent, 
See  but   his    mantle    of  motley    and    garments 

swaddled  around  him, 

5  (65) 


6G  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

Look  at   his   face   and   his   form,  he  never   was 

born  111  our  Hellas. 
Beautiful  still   he   might   be,    if   he    only   were 

dressed  in  our  drapery." 

Then  they  ceased ,  for  the  stranger  already  was 

standing  among  them, 
Manly  in  look  and  lofty  in  stature  and  earnest  in 

feature. 
Fair  was  his  hair  and  ruddy  his  cheek  and  broad 

were  his  shoulders, 
Swift  was  the  flash  of  his  eye,  it  was  wild  and 

still  it  was  gentle, 
Often  it  sank  to  a  dream  reflecting  the  blue  of 

the  heavens. 
Some    new   sort  of   a  man  he    appeared  to  the 

Greek  of  the  islands, 
Taller   he  stood  by  the  half  of  his  head  than  any 

one  present ; 
At   the   entrance  he  stopped    and  gazed  at    the 

group  for  a  moment, 
Smit  by  the  sight  of  what  he  had  suddenly  seen 

in  an  eye-shot ; 
Then   he   turned  and  spoke  to  the  poet,  slowly 

pronouncing 
Each  Greek  word  in  a  tone  that  tingled  the   ear 

with  new  music, 
Though  it  tickled  at  first  the  light-brained  youths 

to  a  titter, 

Whispering,  jibing,  making  remarks  in  the  ban 
ter  of  boyhood. 


THE  STEANGEE   OF  NORTHLAND.  67 

Thus  spake  the  stranger,  deliberate,  yet  inton 
ing  his  firmness, 
For  a  message  he  had  in  his  heart,  and  was  going 

to  tell  it  : 
4<  Far   in  the   region    of  snow  I  dwell,  whence 

Boreas  chilling 
Falls  on  the  sun-loved  South  with  his  sword  that 

is  forged  in  the  Northland, 
Forged  out  of  ice  and  tempered  in  blasts  from 

the  nostrils  of  frost-gods. 

Fierce  is  that  warrior  of  winds  and  like  the  bar 
barian  ever, 
Who  is  charmed  from   his  frozen    world  to  the 

warmth  and  the  harvest, 
And  descends  to  your  seas  with  his    hordes  in  a 

whirl  and  a  tempest, 
Mad  with   your  love  he  smites   in  his  rage  and 

seizes  your  beauty. 
But,  Oh  Homer,  you  1  address,  the  goal  of  my 

travels  — 
For  I  deem  you  that  man  whom  I  name   by   the 

awe  of  your  forehead  — 
Do  you  know   your  measures  have   pierced  our 

ice  builded  fortress, 
Warming  our  clime  by  their  breath  and   melting 

our  hearts  to  their  music? 
Kude  is  the  turn  of  your  words  in  our  speech,  and 

dim  is  the  meaning, 
Still  it  touches  our  hearts, and  to  sympathy  softens 

our  fierceness ; 


68  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

You  have  made  us  all  feel  ourselves  a  little  more 

human, 
When  your  Hero  in  wrath  relented   in  pity  for 

Priam, 
Ransomed  his  bitterest  foe  and  comforted  sweetly 

the  father. 
Northland  is   starting   to   thaw  in  the  breath  of 

the  Southern  singer, 
And  I  am  come  to  reward  you   alive   by  telling 

the  message." 

Joyful  the  poet  was  tuned  by  the  tidings  hyper 
borean, 
Voice  from  a  far  off  world  and  promise  of  much 

that  was  coming, 
Casting  across  the  Greek  landscape  a  shadow  of 

lands  in  the  sunset. 
New   were  the   tones  of  the  tongue,  not  Doric, 

Aeolic,  Ionic, 
Not  the   turn   of  the   speech  that  is  spoken  on 

island  or  mainland, 
Nothing  like  it  had  ever  been  heard  in  the  city  of 

Chios, 
Nothing  like  it  had  ever  been  sung  in  the  strains 

of  a  rhapsode, 
Music   it   had  of  its   own,  and  yet  all  the  words 

were  Hellenic, 
Nay,  all  the  words  were  Homer's,  and  seemed  to 

be  drawn  from  his  poems, 


THE  STRANGER  OF  NORTHLAND.     69 

Wondrously  tinged  with  new  tints  and  quaintly 

turned  to  new  meanings. 
Greatly  surprised  at  the  sound  of  the  voice  spake 

Homer,  uprising : 
"  Speak,  oh  guest,  tell  how  you  have   learned 

our  language  of  Hellas  ; 
Hard   it   is   for  the  native,  harder  it  must  be  for 

strangers, 
Cunning  it  is  like  ourselves,  eluding  the  grasp  of 

the  learner, 
In  its  hundreds  of  shifts  transforming  itself  like 

old  Proteus. 
Then  I  notice  your  rhythm  to  be  of  my  measures 

begotten, 
And  some  turns  of  your  speech  are  certainly  born 

of  my  spirit, 
Aye   and   the   sweep   of  the   thought  when  you 

spoke  of  the  Hero  Achilles. 
Well  you   have   heard   my  song,  far  better  than 

many  a  Grecian, 
Though   a  barbarian,  you,  I  can   feel,  have   the 

touch  of  my  kinship. 
Mighty  and   marvelous  is  all  this,  I  would  never 

have  thought  it, 
Come  now,  tell  me  the  story,  Oh  guest,  for  great 

is  my  wonder." 

44  That  I  shall   tell   you  at  once,"  he  replied, 
"  not  long  is  the  story. 


70  HOMEB  IN   CHIOS. 

What   I   have   spoken  to  you,  I  learned  from  a 

Greek,  my  own  captive, 
Whom  I  had  taken  in  war,  when  he  came  to  my 

country's  border, 
Trading,  plundering,  wandering  over  the    world 

for  adventure ; 
That   was   another   Ulysses,  much-enduring  and 

crafty, 
Loving  the  song  and  the  fable,  singing  them  too 

on  occasion, 
Loving  the  deed  and  daringly  doing  on  land  and 

on  water. 
Your  Greek  earth  was  too  small  for  the  stress  of 

his  thought  and  his  action, 
Over  the  border  he  broke  and  hunted  his  prey 

like  a  lion, 
Knowledge  beyond  it  he  sought,  and  fell  into  fate 

in  his  searching. 
How  I  felt  in  my  bosom  the  swell  and  the  stroke 

of  his  spirit! 
When  I  found  what  he  was,  I  made  him  my  friend 

and  companion, 
Though   a   slave  still  in  name,  he  was  given  my 

love  and  my  bounty  ;  , 

Well  he  repaid  the  act;  from  a  prisoner's  death 

I  had  saved  him, 
And  he  saved  me  in  turn  from  the  ignorant  death 

of  the  savage. 

There  in  the  forest  your  speech  I  began,  I  prac 
ticed  it  daily 


THE   STRANGER   OF  NORTHLAND.  71 

Till  by  his  aid  I  was  able  to  speak  it  the  way  you 
now  hear  me. 

Him  I  set  free  as  soon  as  he  taught  me  the  lan 
guage  of  Homer, 

It  is  the  word  of  your  poem  that  broke  the  chain 
of  his  bondage, 

Mine  too  it  broke  at  a  blow  when  I  said  in  your 
Greek  :  «  Be  free  now,' 

And  I  am  sure,  it  would  break  every  chain  of  the 
people  who  spoke  it." 

More  astonished  than  ever  the  poet  burst  out 
into  questions: 

"  Why  hast  thou  come  to  this  spot,  and  how 
didst  thou  get  to  our  island  ? 

Utter  again  to  me  here  thy  broken  Hellenic  — 
I  love  it, 

Love  it  twisted  and  splintered  and  broken  to  ra 
diant  fragments 

Dropping  out  of  thy  mouth,  yet  speaking  the 
best  that  is  spoken. 

Say,  who  art  thou,  man,  and  what  art  thou  doing 
in  Hellas?" 

Jubilant  Homer  asked,  but  could  not  wait  for 

the  answer, 
Asked  once  more,  and  that  was  not  yet  the  end 

of  his  asking, 
Till  the  stranger,  breaking  the  lull  of  a  moment, 

responded : 


72  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

"  He  the  Greek  whom  I  spoke  of,  once  called 

you  a  native  of  Chios ; 
With  that  name  in  my  heart,  inquiring  each  step 

I  am  come  now 
Over  the  land  from  afar  and  over  the  sea  in  a 

vessel. 
But  is  it   so?  I  can   hardly  believe  it  myself  — 

Art  thou  Homer? 
Tell  me,  old  man,  thy  name,    O   speak    it  but 

once  —  Is  it  Homer  ?  ' ' 
"  So  I  was  called  by  my  mother,  still  so  I  am 

called  by  the  Hellenes, 
Though  there  be  some  who  deem  me  not  Homer 

but  some  other  person, 
Merely  a  different  man  of  that  name,"  responded 

Homerus, 
And  a  sunrise  of  smiles  broke  over  the  seams  of 

his  features, 
As  arose  in  his  thought  the  pedagogue  dwelling 

in  Chios, 
Terrible  pedagogue,  trouncer  of  boys,  the  crusty 

Typt6des. 

Then  spake  the  stranger,  uplifting  himself  to 

the  height  of  his  stature, 
Far  overlooking  the  heads  of  the  rest  of  the  little 

assembly : 
"  Let  me  now  tell  you  the  scope  of  my  travel, 

the  hope  of  my  journey  ! 


THE   STB  ANGER   OF  NORTHLAND.  73 

Praised  be  the  Gods !  I  have  reached  in  safety 

the  place  of  your  dwelling, 
Mighty,  resistless  the  need  I  have  felt  to  see  you 

and  hear  you, 
Aye,  to  learn  your  full  song  and  store  it  away  in 

my  bosom, 

Whence  the  Muses,    daughters  of  Memory,  al 
ways  can  fetch  it. 
I  would  carry  it  off  to  my  home  far  up  in  the 

Northland, 
Fleeting  over   the  wintery    border   of   beautiful 

Hellas 
Where  it  reaches  beyond  the  abode  of  the  Gods 

on  Olympus, 
To  the  regions  where  drinking  their  whey  dwell 

the  mare-milking  Thracians, 
Over  the  hills  and  the  valleys  away  to  the  banks 

of  a  river, 
To   the  stream  that  is  bearing  the  flood  of  the 

wide-whirling  Istros, 
Still  beyond  and  beyond,  still  over  the  plain  and 

the  mountain, 
Over  vast  lands  to  the  seas,  and  over  the  seas  to 

the  lands  still, 
Through    the    icicled    forest,    and   through   the 

tracts  of  the  frost-fields, 
Still  beyond  and  beyond,  still  over  the  earth  and 

its  circles, 
I  would  carry  your  song  in  my  soul  to  the  homes 

of  my  people 


74  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

Where  ^  the  huge  arms  of  the  breakers  are  smit 
ing  the  shore  of  the  Ocean, 

Ever  beyond  and  beyond  in  the  stretch  of  their 
strokes  they  are  striking, 

Beating,  forever  repeating  the  strokes  of  the  in 
finite  Ocean." 

Both  of  his  arms  he  outstretched  and  gazed  on 

the  sea  for  a  moment ; 
Catching  his  breath,  the  stranger  returned  from 

his  look  to  his  hearers: 
"  Barbarous  lands  and  peoples  you  call  them,  and 

truly  so  call  them, 
But  in  their  hearts  they  are  ready,  I  know,  to  be 

tuned  to  your  music, 
And  to  be  dipped,  once  more  new-born,  in  your 

harmony  holy, 
Which  they  will  keep  forever  enshrined  in  their 

lore  and  their  legend. 

O 

Homer,  O  Homer,  poet  of  all  the  nations  and 


Give  unto  Barbary  now  what  the  Gods  have 
given  to  Hellas." 

Round  whirled  the  stranger,  the  beat  of  his 
thought  still  smiting  within  him, 

Driven  out  of  himself,  he  walked  at  a  whisk  a 
small  circle 

And  came  back  to  his  stand,  as  if  putting  a  bodily 
period 


THE   STB  ANGER   OF  NORTHLAND.  75 

There  to  the  sweep  of  his  utterance  swift,  but 

his  spirit's  full  gallop 
He  could  not  rein  in  at  once,  and  so  his  words  he 

continued : 
"  All  of  your  song  I  would  know,  the  whole 

of  it  fitted  together, 
That  Greek  captive  of  mine  could  only  sing  me 

the  fragments, 
Broken  off    here  and  there   from  the  whole  — 

most  beautiful  fragments, 
Which  Mnemosyne  fleetingly  brought  him  when 

he  invoked  her. 
But  the  whole  of  your  song  I   must  have,  the 

whole  of  it  shredless, 
For  the  whole  is  often  far  more  than  all  of    its 

pieces, 
Aye,  the  whole  is  all  of  its  pieces,  and   is  the 

whole  too." 

Here  laughed  Homer  aloud,  yet  spake  no  word 

with  his  pleasure ; 
What  had  started  the  poet  who  rarely  gave  way 

to  his  laughter? 
It  was  the  thought,  the  comical  thought  of  the 

pedagogue  Chian, 
Who  was  always   beating  and  breaking  the  song 

into  pieces, 
Till  he  became  what  he  made,  became  too  himself 

but  a  fragment  — 


76  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Terrible  fragment  of  man,  the  trouncer  of  boys 

and  of  verses, 
Terrible     pedagogue    Chian,    the    slasher     and 

thrasher,  Typtodes. 

All  of  the  youths  drew  closer  around  him,  the 

wonderful  stranger, 
Scholar  hyperborean,  the  first  that  had  come  from 

the  Northland  ; 
They  received  him  as  one  of  themselves  in  the 

school  of  the  master, 
Gone  is  the  scoff  and  the  jibe,  and  the  whisper  is 

speaking  respectful. 

Also  Praxilla  was  there,  the  beautiful  daughter 

of  Homer, 
Hearing  the  marvelous  tale  and  pondering  deeply 

its  meaning. 
Sweetly  the  maiden  looked  up  and  smiled  at  the 

mirth  of  her  father, 
Though  she  knew  not  the  cause,  she  knew  that 

the  stranger  had  pleased  him, 
Her  too  the   stranger  had  pleased,  she  thought, 

in  pleasing  the  father, 
Her  too  the  stranger  had  pleased  —  she  knew  not 

what  was  the  reason. 
Not  yet  brought  to  an  end  was  the  task  of  the 

day  in  the  household, 
Still  she  lingered  and  listened,  though  hearing  the 

call  of  the  kitchen. 


THE  STRANGER  OF  NORTHLAND.      77 

Nobly  erect  stands  the  youth,  and  towers  aloft 

in  his  stature, 
Brave  as  a  hero  he  must  be  to  travel  alone  the 

long  journey, 
Loyal  the  heart  in  his  breast,  so  true  to  his  Greek 

benefactor ; 

Lofty  his  soul  looks  out  and  full  of  divine  aspi 
ration  ! 
Man  with    a  beard,  overtopping    the  cluster  of 

beardless  bardlings, 
As  great  Zeus  overtops  all  the  Gods  in  his  mien 

and  his  power. 
Burst  is  the  bloom  of  his  manhood,  still  as  a  man 

he  is  youthful, 
Weighty  his  speech  drops  down  with  the  ring  of 

the  masterful  doer; 
And  Praxilla  the  daughter  of  Homer  still  lingered 

and  listened, 
Lingered   to  hear  but   a   word,  one  more  word 

she  would  catch  from  the  stranger, 
Though  again  she  heard  the  importunate  cry  of 

the  kitchen. 

Seeing  her  there  he  began  once  more,  that  son 

of  the  Northland, 
For  he  thought  she  might  wish  to  be  told  what  he 

knew  about  women : 
"  Rude  though  we  be  and  warriors  from  birth,  we 

are  fond  of  the  household, 


78  HOMEll  IN  CHIOS. 

And  we  honor  the  wife  who  rules  with  her  heart 

in  her  home  life ; 
But,  yet  more,  we  honor  the  woman,  for  she  is 

the  healer, 
Ever  the  merciful  healer  through  the  love  in  her 

nature, 
Healing  the  soul  and  the  body,  and  nursing  the 

sick  and  the  helpless. 
Aye,   yet   more,  we   hold   her   the    seeress,  the 

gifted  divinely, 
Who  has  the  vision  beyond,  foretelling  the  time 

unto  mortals." 
And  Praxilla  still   lingered  and   listened,  the 

daughter  of  Homer, 
Lingered  to  hear  but  a  word,  one  more  word  she 

would  hear  from  the  stranger  ; 
Louder  and  louder  resounded  the  dolorous  cry 

of  the  kitchen. 

Then  the  poet  in  speech   forethoughtful  and 

hearty  addressed  him: 
"  Welcome,  oh  stranger,  here  is  'our  board  with 

its  wine  and  its  viands, 
Stay  and  partake,  be  refreshed  from  thy  journey 

in  body  and  spirit, 
First  pour  a   drop  to  the  God  of  the  Light,  far 

darter  Apollo, 
Pray  then,  for  men  have  need  of  the  God,  he  will 

answer  thy  prayer. 


THE  STE  ANGER  OF  NORTHLAND.     79 

Take  of  me  all  that  I  am,  or  was  or  ever  I  shall 

be, 
Bear  me  afar  as   thou  wilt,  to   thy  folk   in   the 

snows  of  the  Northland, 
Learn  all  my  song   and  carry  it   off,  the  whole, 

not  a  fragment, 
For  no  fragment  can  live  if  torn  from  its  life  in 

o 

the  body; 

Sing  it  thyself  and  let  it  be  sung  by  the  farther 
most  peoples, 
Thine  it  is  as  it  is  mine,  if  thou"  only  art  able  to 

sing  it; 
In  thy  words  I  can  feel  that  thou  art  the  son  of 

the  future, 
Feel  what  is  coming  to  me  and  to  mine  from  the 

world  to  the  westward. 
Welcome  O  guest,  now  drink  of  our   wine  and 

eat  of  our  viands  ; 
Stay  —  perchance  I  shall  make  thee  joint  heir  of 

all  my  possessions." 

So  spake  the  father  in  joy,  expecting  the  feast 

to  be  ready. 
But   Praxilla,    where    is    Praxilla,    the   dutiful 

maiden? 
Still  she  lingered  in  spite  of  herself,  and  listened, 

and  wondered, 
Lingered  to  catch  but  a   word,  one  more  word, 

from  the  lips  of  the  stranger, 


80  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

Though  her  father  she  heard  re- echo  the  cry  of 

kitchen, 
When  he  spoke  of  drinking  the  wine  and  eating 

the  viands. 
Beautiful   daughter   of   Homer  she  stood  there, 

but  dutiful  also ; 
She  was  restless,  and  said  to  herself  in  reproof, 

still  delaying: 
"Surely  I  ought  to  be  off,   I  was  needed  long 

since  in  my  kitchen ; 
What  will  the   household  become  if  left  to  itself 

in  the  future  ? 
Oh,   those   women,  those  wonderful  women,  up 

there  in  the  Northland  ! 
That  was  the  tale  of  a  dream,  and  still  I  appear 

to  be  dreaming, 
Thinking  myselt  far  away  in  the  glistening  home 

of  the  frost-gods, 
Thinking  myself  in  a  temple  of  ice  on  the  top  of 

an  iceberg. 
Woman,  now  speed  from    this  old  Greek  world 

and  march  to  the  new  one  ! 
Would  he  take  me  along  if  I  perchance  would  go 

with  him? 
That  is  my  mind  —  and  yet  I  know  not  whether  I 

know  it ; 
That  is  my  mind —  beyond  the  seas  and  over  the 

mountains  — 
But  I  must  go  —  my  kitchen,  my  kitchen  —  and 

still  I  delay  here  — 


THE   STRANGER   OF  NORTHLAND.  81 

Ever  beyond  and  beyond  is  my  mind,  on  the  wings 

of  my  thinking, 
Over   the   plain  and  the  mountain,  and  over  the 

border  of  Hellas, 
Up  to  the  stream  that  is  bearing  the  flood  of  the 

wide-whirling  Istros, 

Over  the  river  afar  to  the  shore  of  the  further 
most  Ocean, 
Where  I  can  feel  the  embrace  of  the  waves  of  the 

earth-holding  Ocean, 
There   I   would  stand  by   the  waters  —  and  yet 

even  they  could  not  stop  me  ! 
But  away  to  my  kitchen,  my  kitchen  —  Oh,  why 

do  I  stay  here ! ' ' 

Just  at  that  moment  the  stranger  looked  over 

the  youths  round  about  him, 
But  those  youths  did  not  mark  quite  what  he  was 

warily  seeking, 
Even   away  from  the   poet  he  looked  and  found 

what  he  searched  for, 
Where  stood  the  lingering,  listening  daughter  of 

Homer,  Praxilla, 
Who   still   delayed  for  a  word,    one  more  word 

from  the  lips  of  the  stranger. 

Then    spake    the  father,    breaking    into    the 

thought  of  the  daughter  : 

66  Hold  !  thy  name,  O  guest,  we  must  know,  ere 
we  go  to  the  banquet, 
6 


82  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

We  must  address  thee  as  one  of  our  OVVD,  when 

we  sit  at  the  table." 
Slowly  the  stranger  pronounced  it,  barbarous, 

heavy,  rough-throated, 
But  those  soft-toned  Greeks  could  not  speak  it  in 

spite  of  their  cunning, 
Oft  he   repeated  it  for  them,  but   in  vain  they 

essayed  it, 
Rudely  its  sounds  were  jolting  out  their  mouths 

in  confusion, 
Broken  to  fragments  around  on  the  air  flew  the 

name  of  the  stranger. 
Then  the  master  spake  out,  and  bade  all  be  silent 

a  moment : 
"  Much  too  old  is  my  voice  to  be  forced  to  the 

tones  of  thy  language, 
Always  it  creaks   and  breaks  if  strained  to  the 

subtle  adjustment, 
I  have  sung  too  much   to  make  any  longer  this 

discord. 
Hearken  to  me  !  in  my  tongue  I  shall  name  thee 

henceforward  Hesperion, 
Son  of  the  Evening,  come  from  the  dip  of  bright 

Helius  westward, 
Eising  and  shining   when  it  is  sunset  already  in 

Hellas. 
That   is  a  name  we  can  sing  to  right  music  in 

measure  Hellenic, 


THE  STRANGER  OF  NORTHLAND.     83 


List  to  the  word,  let  us  sing  it  together:  Wel 
come,  Hesperion  !  " 

Then  the  youths  sang  aloud  all  together :  Wel 
come,  Hesperion  ! 

And  Praxilla  whispered  in  silence:  Thrice 
welcome  Hesperion ! 

In  a  blush  at  her  whisper,  she  turned  and  ran  out 
to  her  kitchen. 


Clio. 

The  Travels  of  Homer. 


(85) 


ARGUMENT. 

Homer  takes  up  the  account  of  his  travels  through 
Hellas  in  preparation  for  his  work.  All  his  scholars  are 
present,  of  whom  a  short  list  is  given.  He  first  went  to 
Troy,  and  saiu  the  ruined  city  with  its  plain,  where  the 
war  took  place.  Then  he  crossed  over  to  the  continent 
of  Greece,  and  heard  the  people  of  each  village  celebrate 
the  deeds  of  its  special  hero.  While  singing  himself 
he  also  heard  the  bards  of  every  locality  sing  its  special 
legend  of  Troy  and  the  aforetime.  Thus  Homer  gath 
ered  all  the  stories  of  the  Trojan  ivar,  and  fused  them 
together  into  his  great  national  poem.  He  chances  to 
speak  of  Helen  and  her  captivity;  at  once  the  old  conflict 
fiames  out  among  the  pupils  in  his  school.  But  Homer 
stops  the  dispute  for  a  short  time,  and  continues  the  nar 
rative  of  his  travels,  till  the  strife  breaks  out  anew,  this 
time  over  Hector,  between  Glaucus  the  Lycian  and 
Demodocus  the  Ithacan.  Each  side  is  still  ready  to 
fight  the  Trojan  war  over  again.  Homer  once  more 
harmonizes  the  conflict,  and  takes  occasion  to  show  how 
the  poet  must  embrace  in  himself  both  sides  of  the  strug 
gle  ivhich  he  portrays. 


(86) 


Morning  had  come  from  the  East  saluting  the 

island  of  Chios, 
Throwing  her  kisses  of  light  along  every  line  of 

the  landscape, 
Till   it  stood  forth  in   her   glance,  revealed  and 

transfigured  to  vision. 
Soft  was  the  light  that  she  dropped  from  her  lips 

on  the  hill  and  the  valley, 
Tenderly  touching  the  air  with  violet  tinges  and 

golden  ; 
Under  her  feet  lay  the  waters  and  over  her  head 

bent  the  heavens, 
Both  of  them  waked  from   the  night,  reflecting 

her  soul  in  their  stillness; 
Sea  and  sky,  the  two  big  blue  eyes  of  nature,  had 

opened, 

(87) 


88  HOMER  IN    CHIOS. 

And  were  looking  with  joy  on  Chios,  the  beauti 
ful  island, 

Where  not  far  from  the  beach  stood  the  garden 
and  dwelling  of  Homer. 

All  the  youths  had  assembled  to  hear  the  tale 
of  his  travel , 

Which  by  the  chance  of  the  moment  had  been 
before  interrupted ; 

Now  they  would  hear  of  the  way  he  had  wan 
dered  to  come  to  his  poems, 

For  they  all  would  like  to  be  Homers  and  sing 
of  the  heroes, 

Catching  the  glory  of  life  in  the  lilt  of  a  music 
al  measure. 

Glaucus  was  there,  a  youth  from  the  banks  of 
the  eddying  Xanthus, 

Mighty  his  ancestor  was,  Bellerophon,  hero  of 
Lycia ; 

Warriors  his  race  had  been,  but  he  now  sought  to 
be  poet ; 

Singing  not  doing  the  deed  he  held  the  better  vo 
cation. 

Other  great  names  were  present  from  lowland 
and  upland  of  Asia: 

Gyges,  Mysius,  Nastes,  son  of  a  Phrygian  mon 
arch  , 

Dardan  from  Gargarus  nigh  unto  Troy,  the  city 
in  ruins, 


THE   TEAVELS   OF  HOMER.  89 

Aphroditorus  the  curled  Milesian  boy,  Niobides 
Fresh   from    the   tears   of  Sipylus — these  may 

stand  as  examples ; 
But  the  foremost  was  Glaucus,  the  son  and  the 

grandson  of  Glaucus, 
Far  back  tracin^  his  blood  to  the  veins  of  Bel- 

o 

lerophontes. 

Next,  O  Muse,  thou  must  glance  at  the  youths 

who  crossed  out  of  Europe. 
Young  Demodocus  came,  who   sprang  from   an 

order  of  singers, 
Living  in  Ithaca  where  they  sang  of  the  toils  of 

Ulysses. 
Homer   had  been  their  guest  when  he  touched 

their  isle  in  his  travels, 
Gathering  wonderful    Ithacan  tales   of  voyages 

westward, 
Fabulous  threads  of  song,  like  gossamers  floating 

in  sunshine, 

All  to  be  caught  by  the  poet  and  wove  to  a  beau 
tiful  garment. 
Teucer  of  Salamis  came,  descended  from  Teucer 

the  archer ; 
Skill    in  handling  the   bow  he   possessed  —  the 

gift  of  Apollo, 
But  the  God  had  refused  his  other  great  gift  — 

that  of  wisdom ; 
Still   the   youth  would  be  singer,    and  broke  in 

scorn  all  his  arrows, 


90  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Talent  he  had  for  the  one,  desire  he  felt  for  the 

other, 
Teucer  could  not  what  he  would,  and  whatever 

he  could  he  would  not. 
Burly   Plexippus  was  there,  the  richest  scholar 

of  Homer, 
Glossy    and    sleek    were  grazing    his  herds   in 

Thessaly  grassy, 
Thousands   of  horses  were  his  that  drank  at  the 

streams  of  Peneios, 
Palaces  too   he  owned  and  held  whole  cities  for 

barter ; 
Somehow   he  thought  he  could  simply  exchange 

some  cattle  for  verses, 
E'en   the  Pierian   spring  was  his   by  virtue  of 

money, 
Once  for  its  waters  he  counted  out  pieces  of  gold 

and  of  sjlver, 
But  though  their  fountain    he  bought,  he  never 

could  purchase  the  Muses. 
When   he   returned   to  his  country  and  held  his 

Thessalian  domains, 
All  his  thought  was  to  buy  up  the  home  of  the 

Gods,  high  Olympus, 
Then  the  Gods  he  deemed  he  possessed,  possessing 

their  mountain, 
And  at  his  will  he  could  call  them  down  from  their 

heights  to  his  poem. 

Other  youths  from  the  islands  had  come,  and 
also  from  Argos, 


THE   TBAVELS  OF  HOMEK.  91 

But  the  Muse  has  not  given  their  names  excepting 

Sophrones, 
Clear    Athenian    soul,    devoted   to   worship    of 

Pallas, 
Moralist  ever   was   he,  the  manifold   maker   of 

maxims. 

Tall  Hesperion  too  was  present,  just  from  the 

Northland, 
Sole  barbarian  there,  yet  eager  to  learn  and  to 

listen, 
Towering  over  the  rest  like  Fate  over  beautiful 

Hellas; 
Strong  were  his  features,  yet  melting  to  love  in 

the  sunshine  of  Chios. 

One  more  scholar  forget  not,  though  first  pres 
ent  this  morning! 

There  she  stands  behind  by  the  door  —  the  daugh 
ter  of  Homer, 

Still  by  the  door  in  the  rear  —  she  yet  will  ad 
vance  to  the  foreground. 

Shy  are  her  glances,  striving  to  hide  her  heart  in 
her  bosom, 

But  they  are  tell-tales,  and  whisper  the  thought 
she  is  secretly  thinking. 

Voices  arose  which  bade  the  poet  go  on  with 

his  story; 

Grappling  awhile  for  his  thought  again  he  began 
his  recital : 


92  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

"  First  I  went  over  to  Troy,  and  dwelt  on  its 

plain  and  its  hillock, 
In  the  city  destroyed  I  stayed  and  lived  with  its 

ruins, 
Which  still  talk  to  the  traveler  telling  their  story 

so  fateful. 
Kivers  I  saw  in  the  plain,  and  heard  the  God  of 

Scam  and  er 
Speak   of  the   Heroes   slain  and  many  a  furious 

battle, 
As  he  pointed  to  corselet  and  helmet  and  shield 

mid  his  rushes, 
Showing  the  skulls  of  the  dead  that  grinned  from 

the  ooze  of  his  stream  bed. 
Thence  I  passed  on  the  sea  in  a  ship  from  island 

to  island, 
Felt  the  favor  of  hoary  Poseidon,  and  felt  too  his 

anger, 
When  he  would  roll  up  the  waves  in  a  storm  by 

the  might  of  his  trident ; 
Him  I  once  saw  in  his  chariot  scudding  away  on 

the  billow 
Right    into    sunset,  and    leaving  a    fiery  track 

through  the  waters. 

Glad  for  my  life  I  was  when  I  came  to  the  main 
land  of  Hellas, 
Peoples    I  saw,  their    cities    and    customs,  but 

chiefly  their  legends 
Drew  me  to  listen  and  gather  each  radiant  shred 

of  their  spirit. 


THE   TEAVELS   OF  HOMEE.  93 

Heroes  unknown  I  found  everywhere,  great  men 

of  their  village, 
Whose  high  deeds  were  at  festivals  sung  by  their 

townsmen  in  worship, 
For  each  village  its  Hero  must  have  and  revere 

him  divinely. 
Every  bard  in  the  country  I  heard  and  stored  up 

his  fables, 
Till  the  Delphian  cleft  which  utters  the  measures 

prophetic, 
Till  the  Thesprotian  land  where  speak  the  oaks  of 

Dodona, 
Till   the   Olympian   heights    where   Gods    look 

down  upon  Hellas. 
And  to  Helicon  came  I  and  heard  the  song  of  its 

Muses, 
Singing  a   rival  strain  to  the  Sisters  who  sit  on 

Parnassus; 
There  I  listened  to  Hesiod,  crabbed  old  singer  of 

Ascra, 
And  I  gave  him  a  note  of  the  song  that  was  rising 

within  me, 
I  had  already  begun  the  new  lay  of  the  Gods  and 

the  Heroes. 
For  a  moment  he  ceased   his  complaints  of  man 

and  of  woman, 
Quit   his  dark  world  of  monsters  primeval  and 

hazy  huge  Titans, 
Just  long  enough  for  a   laugh  to  break  out  like  a 

flash  from  a  storm-cloud, 


94  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

And   to  say  to    me :    Friend,  I    shall  visit    thee 
sometime  in  Chios." 

Here  the  poet  himself  was  a  smile  and  dropped 

into  silence 
For  a  minute  or  more,  and  then  he    returned  to 

his  story: 
66  Early  to  Argos  I  came  and  heard  in  a  hymn  the 

whole  people 
Chanting  the   glory   of   Diomed,  who  was   their 

valorous  leader, 
How   in   the   war   of   Troy  he   fought  with   the 

Gods,  though  a  mortal, 
Fought  with  two  Trojan  Gods  in  the  might  of 

his  heart,  and  he  conquered ; 
For  the  Greek  though  a  man,  must  put  down  the 

God  if  a  Trojan. 
4  That '  I  said  to  myself  '  is  a  note  in  the  lay  of 

our  Hellas, 
In  the  grand  lay  of  our  Hellas  that  is  a  strain  of 

the  music ; 
Part  of  the  one  vast  temple  of  song  in  the  soul 

of  the  nation, 
I  shall  take  it  and  mould  it  and  build  it  into  my 

poem.' 
Each  little  fragment  of  life  and  each  stray  film 

of  a  story, 
Name  of  mountain,  river  and  town,  whatever  I 

found  there, 


THE    TRAVELS   OF  HOMER.  95 

All  I  picked  up  on  the  spot,  and  began  to  weave 

them  together, 

By  the  aid  of  Mnemosyne,  Muse  who  always  re 
members. 
Then  to  Mycenae  I  went,  the   golden,  where 

dwelt  Agamemnon, 
Through   the   portal   I   passed  that  was  guarded 

above  by  the  Lions, 
Fiercely  glaring  in  stone  at  the  man  who  entered 

their  gateway. 
Much  the  splendid  city  had  waned  from  its  old 

Trojan  glory, 
And  the  look  of  the  sunset  rested  all  day  on  its 

towers. 
There  I  learned  the  King's  fate  at  the  hands  of 

his  wife  Clyternnestra, 
And   the   death   of   herself  and  her  lover,  both 

slain  by  Orestes. 
Sad  was  the  tale  of  the  doomful  House  of  the 

Monarch  wide-ruling, 
I  could  never  refrain  from  repeating  that  tale  in 

my  measures, 
Truest    example,  methinks,    of   the    dealing   of 

Gods  with  us  mortals, 
Still  to  be  sung  in  many  new  poems  to  millions 

hereafter. 
It  will  be  poured  into   bronze,  and  hewn  out  of 

whitest  of  marble, 
Told  in  tongues  yet  unborn,  to  measures  unheard 

of  in  Hellas, 


96  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Wretched  indeed  is  the  man,  if  the   Gods  in  his 

pride,  he  obey  not ; 
Base  ^Egisthus,  I  feel  in  my  heart  the  point  of 

thy  dagger !" 

Fervidly  spake   the  old  man,  and  he  seemed 

overcome  by  his  story, 
Thinking  the  fate  that   befel   the   great   prince 

of  the  Greeks,  Agamemnon. 
To  his  own    life  the   poet  transmuted    the  lives 

of  the  Heroes, 
Every  thread  of  a  fable  he  span  to   a  strand  of 

his  heart-strings, 
Each  wild    word  of  the    wildest   old    legend  he 

caught  and  transfigured, 
Unto  each  sorrow    of    mortal    his    bosom    beat 

mighty  responses; 
Nobly  the  youths  were  led  to  revere  the  man  in 

the  poet. 

Soon  his  gloom  he  had  caught  and  flung  it  far 
back  into  Lethe, 

Whence  at  times  it  escapes  in  the  brightest  of 
souls  up  to  daylight, 

And  he  began,  in  his  countenance  looking  the 
look  of  the  sunrise : 

"  Over  the  heights  I  scrambled,  that  was  a  coun 
try  of  mountains ! 

Woodmen  I  met  in  the  forest,  here  and  there  a 
small  hamlet. 


THE    TRAVELS   OF  HOMER.  07 

But  every  where  I  could  find  some  fragment  of 

song  or  of  story. 
Through  the  glens  I  passed  of  the  piping  Arcadian 

shepherds, 
Through  the   hills  full  of  music  down  into  the 

vale  of  Eurotas, 
Where  lay  Sparta  —  and  there  was  the  home  of 

the  beautiful  Helen. 
Still  the  palace  I  saw  in  the  sunlight,  where  Paris 

the  Trojan 
As  a  guest  was  grandly  received   by  the   King 

Menelaus, 
And    I  saw  too  the  glance  of  the  eye  and  the 

thought  of  the  woman, 
In  its  first  flash  to  the  fateful  resolve  —  of  wars 

the  beginning  ! 
Madly  I  followed  each  step   on  the  path  of  the 

sea  as  she  fled  thence, 
Feeling  the  glow  and  the  guilt  of  a  passionate 

world  in  each  heart-beat, 
Watched  her  enter  the  ship,  the  sheltering  ship  of 

her  lover, 
W^atched  it  ride  on  the  sea  till  it  vanished  afar  on 

the  waters. 
There  I  sank  on  the  sand,  as  the  dead  man  drops 

from  the  arrow 
Sent  to  his  heart,  and  I  died  for  a  while  in  the 

battle  of  Helen. 
O  Aphrodite,  Goddess  of  joy  that  is  paid  with 

all  sorrow, 

7 


98  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Queen  of  the  love  that  bears  in  its  proof  the  bit 
terest  vengeance, 
There  I  fell  down  the  thrall  of  thy  spell,  but  I 

rose  up  the  master. 
Thou  dost  also  possess  in  thy  right  the  soul  of 

the  singer, 
I  was  Paris  myself  and  I  fled  to  the  East  with  my 

Helen, 
Troy  I  was  too  and  its    siege,  I  was   taken  and 

burnt  into  ashes ; 
But  I  am  also  the  law  which  is  read  in  the  flames 

of  the  city, 
And  I  am  the  stern  judgment  of  Gods  who  speak 

from  its  ruins." 

When  the  poet  had  stopped  in  the  rush  of  his 

words  for  a  moment, 
See !  a  youth  stands  forth  with  a  flash  in  his  eye 

like  a  falchion, 

Lycian  Glaucus  it  is,  from  the  banks  of  the  eddy 
ing  Xanthus, 
Grandson  of  Glaucus  Avho  fell  in  the  war  by  the 

walls  of  the  Trojans, 
Sprung  of   the   seed    of    Heroes,    though    poesy 

now  he  has  chosen; 
Standing  forth  from  the  ranks  of  his  friends,  thus 

says  he  to  Homer: 
''Helen  belonged  to  our  side,   for  she  was  the 

woman  of  beauty, 


THE    TBAVELS   OF  HOMER.  99 

We  had  to  take  her  and  keep  her,    or   lose   the 

heritage  lovely, 
Basely  resign  it  to  others,  and  yield  up  the  claim 

of  fair  Asia. 
Twenty  years  she  was  ours,  of  all  the  great   war 

she  was  worthy, 
Twenty  years  she  was  ours,  and  we  paid  but  the 

price  of  a  city, 
Even  one  moment  of  Helen  is  worth  all  the  losses 

of  Priam." 

Scarce  had   he   done  when   a   valorous   youth 

sprang  out  of  the  front-line 
From  the  opposite  ranks,  as  if  to  respond  to  the 

challenge ; 
It  was  Demodocus,  son  of  Demodocus,  Ithaca's 

singer, 
Now  in  the  school  of  the  poet  to    learn  the  new 

song  of  the  ages ; 
Far  in  advance  was  the  song  of  all  that  were  sung 

in  his  country 
By  the  old  bards,  his  fathers.     Pointing  his  finger 

ut  Glaucus, 
Raising  his  arm  and  smiting  the  air  at  each  word, 

he  spoke  thus : 
"  Yes,  we  smote  you,  we  burnt  you,  we  bound  you 

when  sated  with  slaughter, 
Women  we  seized  and   your  wealth,   we  wasted 

the  city  and  country. 


100  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Little  was  left  in  the  land,  in  your  gore  we 
painted  our  glory, 

And  the  same  fate  awaits  you  again  if  you  come 
to  the  trial. 

Helen,  the  prize  of  the  world,  you  had  to  sur 
render  forever." 

Each  of  the  fiery  speakers  had  spoken  his  speech 

in  a  fury ; 
See  the  turn !  how  strange !  they  are  looking   no 

more  at  each  other. 
Both  of  them  bending  the   head,  they  covertly 

glance  at  one  object, 
Right  at   one  point  where   stands  the    beautiful 

daughter  of  Homer, 
As  if  Helen  she  were,  to  be  fought  for  and  won 

by  a  nation. 
But  in  the  background  quite  overtopping  them 

all  stood  the  stranger, 
Just   behind    the   fair    daughter    he    stood    and 

seemed  to  be  weighing, 
Dreamful,  blue-eyed  Hesperion,  yesterday  come 

from  the  Northland, 
Now  he  seemed  to  be  weighing  two  weights  in 

the  scales  of  a  balance. 

In  the  midst  of  the  din  the  poet  uprose  from 

his  settle, 

As  great  Zeus  on  Olympus,  the  God  of  the  Greeks 
and  the  Trojans, 


THE    TRAVELS   OF  HOMEE.  101 

Who  looks  down   to 'the  earth  and   judges   the 
struggle  of  mortals. 

Homer  suddenly  saw  the  old  conflict  arise  in  his 
scholars, 

Every  battle   at   Troy  was  still  in  them  —  how 
could  they  help  it? 

From  the  East  and  the  West  they  had  come,  from 
Hellas  and  Asia, 

Deep  is   that  scission  of  soul  and  of   time — a 
breach  everlasting, 

Not  to  be  healed  but  by  one  who  is   both  the 
victor  and  vanquished, 

Who  can  feel  the  defeat  triumphant,  the  triumph 
defeated, 

Who  can   be  slayer  and  slain,  and  rise  up  new 
born  from  his  ashes. 

Homer  united  both  sides,  and  both  saluted  him 
poet, 

What  in  them  was  a  discord,  he  turned  into  har 
mony  lasting, 

What  was  twain  in  their  lives,  in  his  he  made  one 
and  a  poem. 

All  had  their  own  completeness  in  him,  so  hailed 
him  as  master. 

When  to  speak  he  began,  one   word  changed 

strife  into  concord : 

"  Hold,  O  youths,"  he  cried,    "  cease  wrangling 
at  once  in  my  presence ; 


102  EOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

Learn  from  to-day  just  what   is  the  bondage  you 

are  to  get  rid  of  ; 
Free  is  the  poet,  but  free  you  are  not  when  ruled 

by  a  passion ; 
Whole  he  must  be,  but  whole  you  are  not  when 

halved  into  parties ; 
Music   you  never  will  make  if  the   soul   hath  a 

break  in  its  tension. 
Hear  entirely ;  now  let  us  go  on  with  the  rest  of 

my  story. 
Over  to  Pylos  I  passed,  and  saw  the  land  of  sage 

Nestor, 

Who   returned   to   his  home  from  the   war  un 
troubled  by  tempest, 
Or  by  the  wrath  of  the  Gods,  which  wrecked  so 

many  returning. 
Older  than  I  am  he  was  when  at  Troy,  and  yet  a 

good  soldier, 
Fond  of  the  fight,  but  of  telling  a  tale  of  his  youth 

still  fonder. 
Thence  I  sailed    to   Ithaca  where   I    heard    of 

Ulysses, 
Wisest  of   men,  he   endured;  and   enduring,  he 

rose  in  his  wisdom ; 
Great  were   his  deeds  at  Troy,  for  he  was  the 

Hero  who  took  it, 
Mounting  its  walls  by  the  wooden  horse  that  was 

winged  with  his  cunning; 
Over  Achilles  he   rises,  through    might  of  the 

spirit's  contrivance. 


THE    TRAVELS   OF  HOMEE.  103 

But  yet  greater  his  task  was  after  the  city  had 

fallen ; 
To  return  was  the   Hero's  work,  to  return  to  his 

country 
And  to  his  wife,  through  storms  of  the  sea  and 

himself  in  his  doubting. 
Wandering  through  the  whole  world  that  lies  out 

the  sunlight  of  Hellas,  . 
Into  the  magical  islands  beyond    the  bounds  of 

our  knowledge, 
Suffering     sailed  he  on,  though    losing    all  his 

companions ; 
Ithacan  bards  there  told  me  his  tale  of  the  Cyclops, 

of  Circe, 
Even  through  Hades  he  passed,  through  the  realm 

of  spirits  departed ; 
Living,  the  Hero  must  go  beyond  life,  and  return 

to  the  living. 
Thither  I  followed  him  too,  in  my  age  I  told  his 

adventures, 
Bringing   him    back    to   Penelope  prudent   and 

Ithaca  sunny ; 
Last  of  my  song  is  this,  it  has  just  lately  been 

finished, 
Though  some  parts  have  been  sung  long  since  at 

the  festivals  Chian, 
Showing  a  glimpse  of  the  West  where  men  find 

always  their  new-world." 


104  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Thus  he  spake,  and  he  turned,  though  blind, 

with  his  face  to  the  sundown, 
Where   in   his   path  Hesperion,  thoughtful,  was 

standing  in  silence  ; 
But   before   he   began,  interposed  Sophrones  of 

Athens : 
"  Why  such  a  liar  and  rogue  did  you  make  him, 

your  hero  Ulysses?" 
"  Penalty  too  he  must  pay,  the  penalty  even  of 

wisdom," 
Answered  Homerus,  thoughtful,  forecasting  his 

words  for  his  scholars. 
Low  and  slow  he  now  spoke,  as  if  with  his  soul 

he  were  talking: 

"  Always   the  deed  must  be  paid  for,  the  doer 

heroic  must  suffer, 
Virtue  arouses  revenges  and  duty  may  call  up  the 

Furies; 
Double  the  conflict  must  be,  and  the  right  may 

also  be  double. 
O  Ulysses,  great  was  thy  action,  but  followed  by 

curses ! 
The  reward  of  thy  life  will  be  centuries  full  of 

reproaches  ! 
Wrongful  men  thou  didst  pay  with  their  wrong, 

for  this  expect  judgment; 
Thou  didst  meet  the  guileful   with  guile,  smite 

foes  with  their  weapons, 


THE    TRAVELS   OF  HOMER.  105 

Thou  shalt  be  rated  as  guileful  and  cruel  in  turn 

o 

for  thine  action. 
Compensation,    the    law,    has    been    laid  by  the 

Gods  upon  me  too, 
All  the  sunshine  of  nature  is  dark  in  spite  of  my 

vision, 
Insight  the  Muses  have  given,  but  for  it  my  sight 

has  been  taken." 

Such  was  the  answer,  but  it  met  not  the  need 

of  Soph  rones, 
Who   was  the  moralist  trying  old  tales  with  the 

touchstone  of  virtue, 
Easily  solving  the  problem   heroic  by  rule  or  a 

maxim, 
Excellent  maxim  for  men  who  have  not  the  stress 

of  the  problem. 
Thus  the  worthy  Sophrones  tested  the  life  of  the 

Hero, 
Putting  his  standard    to    each    and    measuring 

~  o 

strictly  the  defect. 
Hear   him  again,  for  always  Sophrones  has  one 

other  question : 
"  Which  was  right,  the  Greek  or  the  Trojan? 

That  is  the  point  now, 
Truly  the  point  to  be  settled  before  I  can  enter 

this  calling. 
Much   I  have  been  worried  about  it,  and  still  no 

decision. 


106  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Ere  I   can  sing,    I  must   know  just  what  is  and 

who  are  the  righteous. 
Dare    I  confess?     I  like  not  Achilles,   Ulysses, 

not  Helen, 
Beautiful   Helen  —  she   is  not  beautiful  seen  by 

my  vision, 
Nor  can  I  love  Penelope  prudent  with   all  of  her 

cunning; 
Aye,  the  Gods  of  Olympus  I  like  not,  I  cannot 

adore  them ; 
Zeus  do  you  think  I  can  worship,  a  God  with  the 

passions  that  I  have?" 

Homer,  the  poet,  was  silent;  Sophrones,  how 
ever,  grew  louder: 
"  Best  of  them  all  is  Hector  the  Trojan,  the  man 

most  perfect, 
True  to  the  wife  of  his  heart  and  doing  his  duty 

to  country, 
Brave  as  a  lion  in  war  and  gentle  at  home  as  a 

woman. 
But,  like  the  good  man  always,  he  had  to  fall  in 

the  struggle, 
And    by  fate  to  lose  what  he  fought  for  —  his 

cause  and  his  city. 
Such  is  the  world  —  the  great  men  are  bad   and 

the  good  men  must  perish." 

On  the  spot  the  sparkles  were  flying  from  one 
of  the  scholars, 


THE    TEAVELS   OF  HOMEE.  107 

It  wasGlaucus  who  spoke,  the  fiery  Lycian  bard- 
ling  : 

"  He  was  right  —  great   Hector — defending 
his  home  and  his  nation 

From  the  wanton  attack  of  the  bandits  who  sought 
to  destroy  them  ; 

Valiant  in  every  way  he  was  for  his  land  and  his 
people, 

He  is   the  Hero  of   Homer,  I  say,  the  only  true 
Hero ; 

Hector  was  right,  will  be  right  forever,  and  he  was 
a  Trojan." 

Then  he  turned  to  one  of  the  company  seeking 
approval, 

Just  from  one  and  no  more  he  sought  it  —  the 
daughter  of  Homer, 

Not  from  the  father  the  poet,  but  from  the  beau 
tiful  daughter 

Sought  he  the  meed  of  a  glance  for  his  verses, 
but  she  beheld  not, 

For  she  was  looking  away  from  the  youths  in  an 
other  direction. 

But  in  answer  Demodocus  spoke,  his  vigorous 

rival, 
Rival  not  only  in  verse,  but  also  in  love  of  the 

maiden : 
66  Yes,  but  he  fought    for  the  thing    that    was 

wrong  and  he  knew  it  —  your  Hector  ! 


108  HOMER  Itf  CHIOS. 

For  the  rape  of  Helen  he  fought  and  made  it  his 

own  thus  ; 
Aye,  the  good  husband  battled  in  Troy  to   keep 

wife  from  husband. 
What  in  his  soul  he  condemned,  he  supported  by 

arms  and  by  words  too, 
And  so  died  of  a  lie  in  his  life  and  the  spear  of 

Achilles." 

Suiting  the  act  to  the  speech,  Demodocus  drew 

back  and  lifted 
Hand  and  arm  to  a  poise,  as  if  he  were  hurling  the 

weapon 

Straight  at  Hector,  to  slay  him  before  the  battle 
ments  Trojan; 
Lycian  Glaucus  shrank  not,  but  leaped  to   the 

front  at  the  challenge. 
Great  was   the  uproar;  the  war  of  Troy  once 

more  was  beginning 
Right  in  the  school  of  Homer,  but  quickly  the 

master  bade  silence  : 
"  Hearken,  O   youths,  what  I  say,    and    learn 

by  example  a  lesson ! 
Not   a  part   is  the  poet,  nor  is  he  owned  by  a 

party. 
On  which  side  do  I  sing  in  my  poem  —  the  Greek 

or  the  Trojan? 
Mark  it  —  on  both  and   on  neither ;  the  will  of 

Zeus  is  accomplished, 


THE    TRAVELS   OF  HOMEE.  109 

God   supreme  of  the  Hellenes,  rising  above  all 

conflict. 
Not  with  another,  but  with  himself  is  the  poet's 

true  struggle, 
He   is   the  slayer  and  slain   and  his    soul  is  the 

place  of  the  battle. 
Much  I   think  with  the  Greeks  and  much  I  feel 

with  the  Trojans, 
These  have   my  heart  perchance,  but  those  take 

hold  of  my  reason ; 

Zeus  too  loves  his  dear  children  in  Troy,  but  de 
cides  for  Achsea. 
Ah,  the   poet  must  fight  in  himself  the  dolorous 

combat, 
As  the   God  fought  the  God  in  the  fray  on  the 

heights  of  Olympus; 
Wounds   he  cannot  escape,  he  must  bleed  in  the 

battle  on  both  sides; 
Showing  the  strife  of  the  time,  he  shows  too  the 

strife  in  hi-s  bosom, 
But  he  must  heal  it  — just  that  is  the  seal  of  the 

God  on  the  singer; 
Rage,    war,  battles   he  sings,  but  also  the  peace 

and  atonement, 
Sings   great  Achilles    in  wrath,    and  reconciled 

sings  great  Achilles. 
Now   let   the  truce  be  confirmed  between    both 

the  Greeks  and  the  Trojans, 
And  in  our  joy  we  shall  pour  to  the  Gods  a  hearty 

libation." 


110  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Tall  Hesperion  silently  heard  the  dispute  of  the 

bardlings, 
Much  he  had  learned  about  Hellas,  and  seen  the 

two  sides  of  the  conflict, 
Seen  it  still  living  and  parting  atwain  the  new 

generation, 
Who  were  ready  to  fight  over  Troy,  and  over  its 

poem. 
But  the  best  was,  he  saw  the  poet  bring  both 

sides  to  oneness, 
Out  of  discordance  bring  harmony  lofty  of  men 

and  of  Gods  too, 
Making  the    tumult    of    war   sing  the   song  of 

Olympian  order. 

Homer  in  happiest  mood  uprose  and  continued 
his  talking : 

o 

"  Youths,  Demodocus,  Glaucus,  now  heal  ye  the 

wounds  of  each  other, 
Thinking  the  thought  of  high  Zeus,  as  it  sings  to 

a  melody  god-born, 
Speaking  divinity's  word  which  is  sprung  of  the 

soul's  recognition. 
Valiant  ye  be,  but  let  us  proclaim,  the  war    is 

now  over, 
All  in  one  joy  to-day  let  the  East  and  the  West 

greet  as  brothers, 
Each    of  them  taking  the  best  of  the  other    as 

test  of  his  spirit !" 


THE    TRAVELS   OF  HOMER.  HI 

Turning  aside,  he  spoke  out  the  word  of  com 
mand  in  a  transport : 
"Speed  thee,  Amyntas,   my  boy,  a  full   jar  of 

old  Chian,  the  oldest, 
Ten  years'  ripe  let  it  be,  for   age  in   the  wine 

bringeth  wisdom 
Back  to  the  drinker,  in  concord  attuning  anew 

the  lost  temper, 
Bringing  the   oneness  of  truth   into    souls   that 

differ  by  nature. 
Here  comes  the  wine,  already  I   catch  a  whiff  of 

its  fragrance, 
Oldest  of  Chian  it  is,  a  God  would  mistake  it  for 

nectar. 
Glaucus,  Demodocus,    Gyges,    Plexippus,    and 

Aphroditorus, 
Noble  Hesperion  also,thou  valorous  youth  of  the 

Northland, 
Pledge  now  a  health  to  yourselves,  and  pour  to 

the  Gods  a  libation." 

All  the  youths    of  the    school,  most    willing, 

obeyed  the  good  master, 
Touched  loving  lips  to  the  brim  of  the  wine  on 

the  rim  of  the  beaker, 
Pledging  a  health  to  themselves  and  pouring  to 

Gods  a  libation. 

Hark  !  mid  the  draught  a  shrill  noise  is  disturb 
ing  the  flow  of  the  liquid, 


112  HOME  11  IN  CHIOS. 

'Tis  the  rickety  gate  as  grinding  it  grates  on  its 

hinges. 
Opening  first  to  a  push,  then  backward  it  slams 

with  a  racket; 
What    is    the    shape    that    noisily    enters    and 

shuffles  along  there? 
Man  well-known  in  Chios  he  is,  well-known  unto 

Homer, 
Satisfied  man  with  himself  he  seems   by  the  turn 

of  his  features. 
That  is  the  pedagogue,  first  of  the  island,  the  lord 

of  the  laurel, 
Which  he  doth  use  as  a  switch  for  teaching  the 

verses  of  poets, 
Teaching  the    boys  of   his  school  the  glory  and 

gift  of  the  Muses, 
Whose  fair  branch  he  now  twirls  in  his  hand  as 

he  turns  up  the  pathway. 
Terrible  pedagogue  Chian  he  comes,  the  thrasher 

and  slasher, 
Thrashing  the  youths  into  lore  and  slashing  the 

poets  to  pieces, 
Into  the  school  of  Homer  he  walks  —  he  is  here  — 

O  Typtodes  ! 


VI. 


The  Pedagogue  Chian. 


8  (113) 


ARGUMENT. 

A  rival  school  to  that  of  Homer  is  taught  by  Typtodes, 
the  Chian  schoolmaster,  who  comes  one  day  to  have  a 
short  visit  tvith  the  poet.  Typtodes  is  the  severe  critic 
of  Homer's  poems,  and  cuts  them  to  pieces  quite  as 
some  modern  professors  have  done.  But  the  school 
master  is  a  progressive  man  and  is  now  specially  inter 
ested  in  the  new  script  which  has  been  brought  from 
Phoenicia.  In  fact  he  is  giving  to  the  poems  of  Homer 
their  Jirst  alphabetic  dress  in  spite  of  his  criticism.  It 
turns  out  that  Typtodes  has  really  come  to  see  the  daugh 
ter  of  the  poet,  though  he  disguises  the  fact.  But  his 
bitter  criticism  is  modified  by  the  wine  which  Homer 
causes  to  be  brought  him,  and  his  final  questions  are  in 
a  different  vein  from  his  first  utterances.  A  new  man 
appears  who  will  give  some  answer  to  what  Typtodes  has 
asked. 


(114) 


Not  alone  and  unchallenged  the  poet  held  sway 

in  his  city, 
There  was  a  rival  in  Chios,  who  in  his  realm  was 

the  ruler. 
Most  of  the  youths  of  the  place  were  sent  to  the 

school  of  Typtodes, 
Crusty  Typtodes,  a  far-famed    trouncer  of  boys 

into  learning, 
Tickling  bare  legs  of  Greek  boys  till  they  danced 

to  the  sprig  of  his  laurel, 
Which  he  always  held  in  his  hand  while  he  made 

them  con  verses, 
Rousing   the  Muses   unwilling  by  use    of  their 

favorite  symbol. 

(115) 


116  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Some  were  verses  struck  at  a  heat  from  the  heart 
of  a  poet, 

With  an  Olympian  might,  and  flowing  and  glow 
ing  forever 

In  the  fire  and  flash  of  the  words  of  the  primal 
conception. 

But  the  others,  the  most,  were  his  own,  the  ped 
agogue's  verses, 

Made  without  a  mistake  according  to  rule  in  his 
school-room, 

Flawlessly  made  out  of  wood,  the  toughest  wood 
in  the  forest. 

In  his  sandals  he  shuffles  along  the  loose  stones 

of  the  pathway ; 
Slyly  he  shuffles  and  seems  to  be  slipping  about 

on  his  tiptoes, 
As  the  schoolmaster  warily  slippeth  around   in 

the  school-room, 
Seeking  to  catch  in  the  act  the  bad   boy  who  is 

making  the  mischief. 
Gaunt    and   ungainly    the   man,    and   somewhat 

stilted  in  posture, 
Sparse  was  the  beard,  each  hair  from  his  visage 

shot  out  like  a  bristle 

Ready  to  stick  and  to  prick  any  person  approach 
ing  too  near  him, 
Even  the  kiss  of  Typtodes  had  the  keen  point  of 

a  briar. 


THE  PEDAGOGUE    CHI  AN.  117 

Thin  was  the  nap  on  his  garment,  exact  each  step 

that  he  took  there, 
Always  the  branch  of  the  laurel  he  held  in  his 

hand  while  walking 
Had  in  its  swaying  upward   and  downward  the 

look  of  precision. 
Sharp  was  the  thrust  of  his  eye,  as  it  peered  from 

the  hole  of  the  eyebrows, 
Slightly  barbed  was   the   point  of  his   nose,  no 

mercy  allowing, 
No  escape  for  the  foe ;  his  whole  visage  seemed 

pointed  and  ready, 
Even  his  look  was  a  cut  and  his  tongue  had  two 

edges  of  sharpness. 
Yet  the  man  had  his  virtues — industry,  feeling 

of  duty, 
Faith  in  knowledge  he  never  gave  up,  in  spite  of 

reverses, 
And,  on  the  whole,  he  believed  in  the  movement 

of  men  to  the  belter. 
Bearer  of  light  to  Chios  he  was,  when    the  day 

was  beginning, 
Homer  he  was  not,  and  yet  but  for  him  there  had 

been  no  Homer, 
Whom  he  first  put  into  script  from  the  word  and 

made  everlasting, 
By   the    skill  which  he  had  in  tracing  Phoenician 

letters. 
This  fair  day  he  has  come  to  have  a  good  visit 

with  Homer, 


118  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

Whom  as  a  man  he  liked,  as  a  fellow-craftsman 
respected, 

Deeming  himself  to  be,  however,  the  much  bet 
ter  poet, 

Though  the  world  had  passed  on  the  men  a  differ 
ent  judgment. 

He  had  heard  of  the  beauty,  too,  of  the  daughter 

of  Homer ; 
Living  in  the  same  town  all  his  life  he  never  had 

seen  her, 
Never  had   seen  her,    though  knowing  by  heart 

every  word  of  her  parent. 
Not  too   young  to    be  curious,  not  too  old  was 

Typtodes, 
Pedagogue  Chian  who  sought  for  a  glimpse  of 

the  beautiful  maiden, 
Though,    of   course,  he  pretended  to  come  for  a 

chat  with  the  father. 

Settled  down  in  his  seat  he  began  to  talk  of  his 

methods, 
How  the  rule  had  been  found,  and  the  glory  was 

great  of  the  finder. 
"  Yes,  methinks  I  have  brought  to  perfection  this 

science  of  teaching ! 
Surely  not  much  will  the  schoolmaster  have  to  be 

doing  hereafter 
But  to  follow,  ages  on  ages,  the  steps  of  Typtodes. 


THE  PEDAGOGUE    CIIIAN.  Hi) 

What  great   progress  to-day  we    are  making  in 

every  department ! 
Some  weeks  ago  a  new  churn   was  invented  by 

Phagon  of  Samos, 
Hither  he  brought  it  at  once  and  showed  it  around 

in  our  island; 
Soon  each  household  of  Chios  will  have  it,  soon 

will  be  churning, 
Churning  away  for  dear  life  the  milk  of  the  kine 

of  the  country ; 
Barbarous   oil-eating   Greeks    will    change  into 

eaters  of  butter, 
That    is    improvement,    that,    I  call,  the  grand 

march  of  the  species  ! 
Only  one  fear  I  cannot  help  feeling  amid  all  our 

progress  ; 
All  the  world  will  have  nothing  to  do  ,  and  so  will 

do  nothing, 
After  that  we  are  gone,  and  have  left  it  the  fruit 

of  our  labor ; 
Idleness  is  the  great  curse,  our  children  will  have 

to  be  idle  ; 
Such  is  my  fear ;  so  I  one  day   have  resolved  to 

take  easy; 
Having  dismissed  my  school,  I  would  dally  awhile 

in  your  garden, 
Leave  the  words  of  the  poem  behind  and  talk  with 

the  poet." 

Here  he  stopped  for  a  moment  and  slyly  was 
peeping  around  him, 


120  HOME R  IN  CHIOS. 

Once,  twice,  thrice  he  looked,  and  every  look  was 

a  question, 
Asking,  "  Where,  I  wonder?"  but  without  any 

answer, 
Though  he  could  hear  a  sweet  stray  note  now  and 

then  from  an  arbor. 
In  its  stead  unwilling  he  heard  the  voice  of  old 

Homer : 
"  Friend,  have  you  any  new  light  on  the  dark  way 

of  life?— O  give  it  — 
Some    fresh    word  upon  fate  or  the  law  or  the 

wonderful  secret ; 
Eyesight  is  gone,  and  often  I  feel  the  bounds  of 

my  insight; 
Often  I  feel  the  bounds  of  the  word  in  the  stress 

of  the  spirit." 

Then  began  in  the  height  of  his  mood  the  peda 
gogue  Chian : 

"  We  have  lately  been  reading,  or  rather  reciting 
your  poems, 

Since  in  the  school  or  the  market  they  still  for 
the  ear  are  recited, 

Though  I  myself  can  read  those  recent  Phoenician 
symbols, 

Catching  the  sound  of  the  voice  in  the  devious 
tracery  of  letters  ; 

I  alone  of  all  of  the  men  in  the  island  of  Chios, 

I  can  wind  out  the  labyrinth  weird  made  of 
strange  Alpha-Beta, 


THE  PEDAGOGUE   CHIAN.  121 

Follow  the  clew  to  the  end  and  bring  back  the 

prize  that  is  hidden, 

Hidden  away  by  a  spell  in  the  heart  of  the  char 
acters  mystic. 
Into  those  signs   I  have  been  transforming  the 

voice  of  your  verses, 
Scratching  the  musical  sound  into  signs  which 

now  are  called  letters, 
Magical  symbols  of  fast-fleeting    speech,   which 

fix  it  forever, 
Holding   it  firm   to  the  sight  when   the    tongue 

which  spake  it,  is  silent. 
But  not  yet  I  have  seen  your  beautiful  daughter, 

Homerus, 
Whom  Fame  whispers  abroad  in  every  nook  of 

our  Hellas." 

66  O   good  man,"  said  the  poet,  "  aught  more 

would  I  hear  of  this  wonder, 
Which   has  caught   and  is  holding  the  word  to 

make  it  eternal ; 
Fate  forbids  me  to  see  it,  Oh  then  let  me  learn  of 

the  marvel 
Changing  the  world  at  a  stroke  by  giving  the  past 

to  the  future." 

Crabbed   Typtodes  perchance  was  not  pleased 

with  the  turn  of  the  answer, 

But  he  began  on  the  spot  to  speak  out  the  thing 
that  was  in  him : 


122  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

"  Let  that  pass  —  all  that  which  I  said  of  Phoe 
nician  letters. 

We  have  glanced  these  days  down  into  the  depths 
of  your  poems; 

Now  I  am  going  to  speak  you  the  word  of  friend 
ship  and  frankness. 

You,  I  find,  are  not  accurate,  shifting  the  dates 
of  your  action, 

Not  quite  correct  in  the  facts,  and  you  give  your 
twist  to  the  story. 

All  your  tales  of  the  Gods  are  turned  to  the 
bent  of  your  thinking, 

Somehow  changed  from  the  old  they  seem  to  be 
bearing  your  impress. 

Often  you  make  in  your  spring  important  mis 
takes  in  the  measure, 

Short  where  it  ought  to  be  long,  and  long  where 
it  ought  Jo  be  shortened, 

Forcing  the  stress  of  the  voice  in  places  where  it 
belongs  not. 

And  I  hold  the  hexameter  is  not  fit  for  your 
poem, 

Which,  so  rapid  in  movement,  should  not  be 
delayed  by  the  meter ; 

If  you  only  had  asked  me,  I  could  have  told  you 
a  better. 

Nay,  I  deem  that  measure  not  suitable  to  the 
Greek  language, 

Which  has  a  boisterous  genius  not  to  be  swaddled 
in  long  clothes  ; 


THE  PEDAGOGUE   CHI  AN.  123 

You  should  remember  from  Troy  the  Greeks  no 
longer  are  babies. 

Hark  to  a  verse  of  your  poem,  describing  far- 
darting  Apollo, 

Which  should  be  simple  and  rapid  and  grand, 
divine  in  its  movement ; 

Slowly  it  drags  along  and  cumbers  its  flight  with 
its  lumber, 

Then  at  the  end  it  suddenly  whisks  and  swashes 
its  tail  round. 

What  a  blasphemy  !  Phoebus  will  take  from  his 
quiver  an  arrow, 

Sly  invisible  arrow,  penalty  due  to  the  Muses, 

Put  the  notch  to  the  bow-string  and  pull  it- — be 
hold  !  who  is  stricken  !" 

Warmed  to  his  work  was  shrilly  Typtodes, 
and  so  he  continued, 

Cruelly  lashing  himself  into  slashing  to  frag 
ments  the  poet  : 

"And  that  mixture  of  words  from  every  part  of 
our  Hellas, 

Mixture  poetic  of  fragments  of  speech  from 
island  and  mainland, 

Doric,  Ionic,  ./Eolic,  how   can  it  ever  be  lasting? 

It  is  a  wonder  that  people  to-day  are  willing  to 
hear  it ; 

No  such  jargon  has  ever  been  spoken  by  Greek 
or  Barbarian, 


124  HOMER  IN    CHIOS. 

Crumbs    from  the  table  of  tongues  —  and  that  is 

the  language  of  Homer. 
Though  to  nature  it  be  not  kin,  still  I  put  it  in 

writing, 
And   I  study  it  too,  though  I  have  to  tear  it  to 

fragments ; 
What  seems  substance  turns  in  my  hands  to  the 

flimsiest  shadow, 
I  confess  I  have  pleasure  in  knocking  nothing  to 

pieces, 
All  to  pieces  I  knock  it  so  that  it  appears  to  be 

something.  " 

Satisfied  well  with  his  work,  Typtodes  contin 
ued  in  judgment: 
"  Nor    are   your   characters   always   consistent, 

however  heroic, 
Diomed  changes,  Ulysses  is  never  the  same  in 

two  stories, 
And  your  implacable  Hero  is  placated  twice  in 

his  anger. 
Homer  himself  is  never  the  same,  but  shifts  to 

another, 
Dozens  and  dozens  of  Homers  I  find  ensconced 

in  your  verses. 
Your  large  poem  doth  fall  of  itself  into  many 

small  poems, 
Which,  I  know,  were  sung  by  hundreds  of  singers 

before  you, 


THE  PEDAGOGUE   CHIAN.  125 

Who  were  the  primitive  makers  of  what  you  have 

gathered  and  taken ; 
You  are  but  a  collection  of  songs,  a  string  of 

loose  ballads, 
You  are  not  one  and  a  plan,  but  many  you  are 

and  planless. 
Now  I  shall  state  to  your  face  the  final  result  of 

my  wisdom  : 
Homer,  aye  Homer  himself  is  not  the  true  author 

of  Homer.'* 

Up  rose  the  pedagogue  Chian  and  stretched  to 

the  height  of  his  stature, 
Whirled  his  ponderous  arm  as  if  a  boy  he  were 

flogging, 
Slashing  the  verses  of  Homer,  a  pupil  he  seemed 

to  be  thrashing, 
Terrible     pedagogue     Chian,    the    slasher    and 

thrasher  Typtodes. 

But  in  response  he  called  up  the  cheerful  humor 

of  Homer : 
"  Take  my  book  and  study  it  further;  perchance 

you  can  read  it 
In  that  new  sort  of  script  which  you  say  has  come 

from  Phoenicia. 
One  is  the  book  if  you  are  one  and  can  ever  be 

happy, 
Wholeness  first  being  found  in  yourself,  is  found 

then  outside  you, 


126  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

I  am  halved  and  quartered  if  you  are  a  half  or  a 

quarter, 
But  a  whole  I  shall  be,  if  you  are  a  whole  in  my 

study ; 
Discord  enough  you  will  find  in  my  poem,  if  you 

be  discordant, 
Discord  enough  in  the  world  if  harmony  to  you 

be  wanting. 
But  those  wonderful  letters  —  would  I  might  see 

them  and  read  them  ! 
Ere  I  pass  from   this   earth,  I  would  know  the 

Phoenician  letters!" 

Mild  was  the  manner  and  sweet  was  the  voice 

of  the  godlike  singer, 
Dropping  transparent    as   pearls    the    beautiful 

words  of  his  wisdom, 
Showing  in  chilly  old  age  the  upspring  of  young 

aspiration. 
But  that  terrible  fragment  of  man,  the  trouncer 

Typtodes, 
Spake  once  more,  and  showed  in  his  voice  a  dash 

of  resentment  : 
"  My  next  business  will  be  to  cut  up  your  book 

into  ballads, 
I  shall  put  the  keen  knife  of  this  brain  to  each 

joint  of  your  body, 
Though  I  be  but  a  half  or  a  quarter,  or  less  than 

a  quarter, 


THE  PEDAGOGUE  CH1AN.  127 

You  shall  be  smaller  than  I  am,  you  I  shall  chop 

into  mince-ineat." 
"  In   dissecting,    oft  the  dissector  himself  is 

dissected ; 
What  to  another  he  fits,  may  fit  just  the  fitter," 

said  Homer. 
"  What  a  prophet  you  are?    In  you  I  foresee  the 

grand  army 
Who  will  cut  me  and  stab  me  with  every  sort  of 

a  weapon, 
Gashing  and    slashing  my  whole   poetical   body 

to  fragments. 
Still  I  affirm  your  army  so  grand  can  never  defeat 

me, 
I  shall  remain  as  I  am,  the  wounds  will  return  to 

the  giver. 
But  let    us  stop  this  pitiful  wrangle,  it   wholly 

untunes  me  ; 
Harmony,  wisdom,  hope  it  hath  not,  but  ends  in 

mere  nothing. 
Cheerful  now  let  us  pour  to  the  Gods   a  hearty 

libation, 
Then  let  us  pour  to  ourselves  a  good  draught  in 

the  warmth  of  our  worship." 

Mellowed  at  once  to  the  rhythm  of  wine  Typ- 

todes  gave  answer: 

"  Now  you  are  truly  a  poet,  with  fresh  inspira 
tion  you  touch  me ; 


128  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Wine  is  a  poem  in  drops,  which  you  easily  sip  in 
small  verselets; 

That  hexameter  which  you  just  made  while  urg 
ing  libation, 

Was  a  good  one  —  the  best,  to  my  taste,  you 
ever  have  spoken. 

Better,  I  think,  I  shall  now  understand  the  drift 
of  your  verses." 

Look  !  a  beautiful  figure  has  flitted  past  to  the 
garden ; 

Is  it  a  sudden  dream,  a  phantom  of  vision  fan 
tastic? 

No ;  Typtodes  has  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
daughter  of  Homer, 

Caught  one  fitful  glimpse  of  the  shape  of  the 
beautiful  maiden, 

More  he  longed  for  and  looked  for,  but  he  re 
ceived  not  the  second. 

44  Now  I  would  know,"  he  said,  4<  how  you  build 

with  such  skill  your  grand  temple, 
How  you  turn  your  soul  into  music  that  flows  in 

your  measures, 
How  you  turn  all  the  world  into  harmony  wedded 

to  beauty, 
How  you  call  down  the  Gods  themselves  from  the 

heights  of  Olympus  ?  ' ' 
44  Bravely,"  the  poet  replied,  4*  you  aim  at  the 

white  of  the  mark  now  ; 


THE  PEDAGOGUE   C  111  AN.  12(J 

But  it  is  not  my  calling  to  point  out  the  path  of 

the  Muses 
In  their  flight  through  the  air  down  to  men  from 

the  top  of  Parnassus. 
Surely  enough  it  is  if  I  hear  them  when  they  are 

singing, 
And  repeat  their  melodious  strain  in  its  fullness 

to  mortals. 
Faint  is  the  note  at  first,  but  it  goes  on  extending 

and  swelling, 
Till  it  sweeps  to  its  musical  train  the  whole  earth 

and  the  heaven, 
Tuning  the  discord  below  and  above,  of  men  and 

of  Gods  too." 
"  But  whence  cometh  the  world  of  the  Gods  and 

their  sway  on  Olympus? 
To  the  beginning  I  wish  to  return  and  make  my 

inquiry." 

So  spake  Typtodes,  when  a  new  figure  rose 

over  a  hillock 
Walking  out  of  the  distance,  amid  the  orchard  of 

olives. 
"  Aye,  whence  cometh  the  man,  who  goes  to  the 

Houses  of  Hades? 
What  is  he  here  for — the  mortal  of  clay  once 

shaped  by  Prometheus? 
And  the  woman,  his  mate,  the  beautiful,  fateful. 

what  is  she?  " 


130  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Asking  he  glanced  to  the  right  and  the  left  for 

the  daughter  of  Homer, 
Nowhere  he  saw  her,  but  in  her  stead  he  beheld 

through  the  leaflets, 
Slowly  approaching,  the  man  he  had  seen  before 

in  the  distance. 

Such  were  the  questions  which  eager  Typtodes 

put  to  Homerus, 
Who  replied  not,  but  seemed  of  something  else  to 

be  thinking. 
Hark  to  the  groan  of  the  gate  which  suddenly 

grinds  on  its  hinges ! 


VII. 


tlvamtnt. 


The   Singer   of  Ascra. 


(131) 


ARGUMENT. 

The  person  approaching  turns  out  to  be  Hesiod,  the 
poet  of  Ascra  in  Baiotia,  whom  Homer  had  met  in  his 
travels  and  whom  he  had  invited  to  come  on  a  visit  to 
Chios.  Hesiod  is  received  by  his  brother  poet,  and  tells 
his  story  of  the  Gods,  and  his  view  of  the  ivorld.  He, 
too,  will  see  and  know  the  daughter  of  Homer,  though 
he  has  no  good  opinion  of  woman.  Finally  he  beholds 
her,  when,  for  a  sarcasm  on  her  sex,  she  gives  him  a 
tart  reply.  The  old  Greek  misogymist  and  pessimist 
slips  away  from  the  company,  and  vanishes  out  of  Chios 
at  the  appearance  of  another  woman,  the  songstress  of 
Lesbos. 


(132) 


All  start  up  at  the  stridulous  sound  to  see  what  is 

coming, 
When   a   stranger  moves  into  the  path    of   the 

eye  to  the  heavens, 
Leisurely  comes  down  the  walk  which  leads  to  the 

garden  of  Homer, 
Beautiful  garden  of  fruit  and  of  flowers,  of  shade 

and  of  sunshine. 
Broad     and    bony    the  hand   of   the    man,  and 

knotted  the  knuckles, 
Trained  to  whirling  the  ax  by  the  helve  in  the 

woods  on  the  mountain, 
Trained  to   holding  the  plow  by  the  handle    in 

turning  the  furrow, 
Used  to   toil  were  his  palms,  and  hardened  to 

horn  by  his  labor. 

(133) 


134  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Great  strong  lines  he  had  in  his  face  dividing  it 
crosswise, 

Also  dividing   it  lengthwise    to  network  of  val 
ley  and  mountain, 

Which  would  rise  and  fall  into  billows  of  rough 
corrugations : 

Surely  that  face  was  a  battle,  the  battle  of  Gods 
and  of  Titans, 

Seizing    and  hurling   volcanoes  aflame  in   their 
wrath  at  each  other. 

Under    his  features  was    lying  a    scowl,    which 
seemed  to  be  born  there, 

Which    would  dart  from  its  lair  in  his  look,  spit 
ting  fire  like  a  dragon ; 

Strange  was  the  tone  of  his  speech,  yet  stranger 
his  play  of  grimaces, 

Lips   would  writhe  at   each  word,  as  if  it  were 
sore  to  be  spoken. 

Hark!  he  is  ready  to  speak  and  turns  to  the  poet 
of  Chios  : 

"  Over  the  sea  I  have  come  in  a  ship  from  the 

mainland  of  Hellas ; 
Voyage  unblest,    for  Poseidon    was  trying  each 

minute  to  drown  me, 
Dashing   his    waves    on  the    craft  and    mightily 

cleaving  the  waters ; 
Often  he  opened  his  jaws  and  shut  them  tight  on 

the  vessel, 


THE   SINGER   OF  AS  OKA.  135 

How  I  escaped  I  know  not,  but  salted  and  scared 

I  escaped  him. 

Heavy  Boeotia  is  my  home,  my  village  is  Ascra, 
Ugly  village  of  Ascra,  vile  in  the  summer   and 

winter. 
There  I  sang  of  the  Birth  of  the  Gods  and   the 

Works  of  poor  mortals, 
Mortals,  who  sweating  and  swinking  in  life,  die 

at  last  in  a  discord/* 

"  What  a  note  is  that  in  the  sunlight  of  Chios," 

cried  Homer, 
"  Who  art  thou,  man?     Some  tricks  of  thy  voice 

I  have  heard  in  my  travels." 
Twisting  his  face  into  scowls,  as  if  he  were  tasting 

of  wormwood, 
Spake  the  poet  of  Ascra,  and  spitefully  spat  out 

the  bitter  : 
44  Well  thou   knowest,   for   thou  hast  borrowed 

some  of  my  verses, 
Hiding  the  source  in  a  word,  thou  hast  called  it 

the  breath  of  the  Muses. 
Once   I   sang   for  thee  when  thou  hadst  come  to 

my  home  in  thy  journey, 
Sang  of  the  eldest  Gods  who  were  born  of  Chaos 

primeval, 
For  I  like  to  go  back  to  the  start,  though  it  be 

all  in  darkness, 
Origin  ever  I  seek,  although  I  can  never  quite 

reach  it. 


136  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

What  a  pleasure  to  run  from  the  sheen  of  the 
sun  back  to  nothing ! 

This  Olympian  order  of  thine,  it  came  of  dis 
order, 

Which  is  my  burden  of  song  reaching  back  to 
the  very  beginning ; 

Even  this  beautiful  day  now  sporting  in  joy  of 
the  sunshine, 

Not  long  ago  was  born  of  the  night  and  to  night 
it  returneth." 

"  Hail,  O  brother,"   said  Homer,  the  bard,  to 

the  poet  of  Ascra, 
"  I   have  heard  thee  before  on  Helicon  —  now  I 

remember  — 
Bleak  was  the  day  and  hoarse  was  the  wind  that 

blew  up  the  valley. 
Be  at  home,  O  guest ;  give  us  more  of  thy  song  — 

I  would  listen." 

Then  again  the  poet  of  Ascra  seemed  tasting  of 

wormwood, 
Ere  his  strain  he  began  in  the  stress  of  a  mighty 

upheaval ; 
Soon  into  thunderous  words   he  let  out  the  soul 

of  old  Chaos: 
"  All  this  isle,  this  world,  as  we  see  it,  was  once 

but  a  monster, 
Peopled  with  monsters  grim  in  the  grey  of  the 

distant    aforetime; 


THE   SINGER   OF  ASCRA.  Io7 

There  I  love  to  dwell  with  old  Cronus  who  swal 
lowed  his  offspring, 
Even  to  Uranus  oft  I  go  back  for  a  gaze  in  the 

twilight, 
And   I  dally   with   Nereus,  parent  of   beautiful 

daughters, 
Thousandfold  forms  of  the  billows'rising,  rolling, 

retreating, 
Fleeting  forever  away  in  the  haze  of  the  distant 

horizon, 
Leaping  anew  into  life  as  they  rise  to  the  top  of 

the  sea-swell. 
O  for  the  mightiest  monsters  of  old!  I  tell  you, 

I  like  them  ; 
All  day  long  I  could  sing  of   the  terrible  brood 

of  the  Gorgons, 

Triple-headed,  hundred-handed,  thousand-legged, 
Cerberus,   Briareus,   Hydra,    Chimoera,  Echidna 

the  lizard ; 
What  is  Olympus  to  these,   with  its  Gods  who 

dwell  in  the  sunshine  ! 
Once  in  this  world  lived  a  people  I  loved  —  the 

Giants  and  Titans, 

Who  could  hurl  as  weapons  of  war  huge  mount 
ains  and  rivers, 
Heaven  itself  they  would  storm  and  break  down 

the  limit  of  mortals, 
Which  the  Gods  once  set  in  their  envy  when  man 

they  created. 


138  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Long  the   battle  was   fought,    the    stormers  of 

heaven  were  vanquished, 
Now  see  them  whirl  —  down,  down  they  spin  to 

Tartarus  sooty, 
By  the  Olympians  whisked  off   the   earth-ball  to 

infinite  spaces, 

Where  they  lie  under  ban  of  falling,  falling  for 
ever. 
Still  in  the  TJpperworld  sunny  they  wrought  for 

the  ages  great  wonders ; 
This  fair   island,   this    sea,  yon   mountains  are 

showing  their  power. 
Lofty,    grandiloquent  words  are    my  colors,  by 

which  I  can  paint  them, 
Words  that  are  sung  in    mine  ear   by  the  high 

Heliconian  Muses, 
Loving  the  mighty  and  monstrous  and  piling  up 

horror  on  horror  " 

"Hold,  for  mercy!  "  cried  Homer,  "  let  me 
catch  breath  for  a  moment, 

For  I  seem  to  be  falling,  falling  along  with  your 
Titans, 

Down  to  black  Tartarus  whirling  I  spin  in  a 
spiral  headforemost. 

Poet,  is  there  no  light  in  your  world,  no  beauti 
ful  order?" 

Curling  his  lip  to  a  scowl,  responded  the  singer 
of  Ascra : 


THE   SINGER   OF  ASCEA.  139 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  like  your  Olympian  sun 
shine,  Homerus, 
All  of  your  deities  stand  too  clear  in  the  sweep 

of  my  eyesight, 
Cut  into  words  they  walk  as  if  they  were  moving 

to  marble, 
Gods  in  my  thought  should  break  over  bounds 

into  limitless  regions, 

Break  over  all  of  the  forms  of  fair  life  into  in 
finite  fancy. 
Give  me  the   view  far  away   o'er  the  deeps  of 

Oceanus  hoary, 
And  his  thousands  of  children  with  all  the  dim 

train  of  the  sea-gods, 
Breaking,  creating  their  shapes  with  every  new 

dash  of  the  wavelet, 
Riding  the   steeds  of  the    sea  and  leaping  from 

billow  to  billow. 
Homer,  I  conic  to  pay  thee  a  visit  once  promised 

at  A  sera; 
And   I   have   heard   of  a  beautiful  maiden  now 

dwelling  in  Chios/' 
"Welcome    again,    O    friend,"     said    Homer; 

"  some  wine  in  a  goblet, 
Speed  thee  Amyntas,  my  boy  —  some  Chian  wine 

for  the  poet." 

But  the  musical  guest  in  response  made  a  face 

full  of  discord, 

For  in  spite  of  himself  he  longed  to  behold  the 
fair  daughter. 


140  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Disappointed,  lie  turned  once  more  to  the  tale  of 

his  terrors: 
"Dragons  I  love,  if  human,  and  forms  of  the 

sphinxes  and  griffons, 
Forms  commingled  of  man  and  of  beast,  which 

sprang  from  the  Orient. 
You,  O  Homer,  have  driven  my  monsters  away 

to  the  background, 
Far  in  the  background  of  Hellas  they  lie  under 

curse  of  your  spirit, 
Where  they  will  stay  by  your  spell,  I  fear,    in 

the  darkness  forever. 
—  No,  again  they  will  rise,"   spake  the  poet  of 

Ascra  prophetic, 
"  Out  of  the  night  they  will  rise  and  bask  in  the 

sheen  of  Apollo, 
Far  in  the  future  I  see  them  step  to  the  light 

from  their  hiding, 
They  will  riot  around  in  the  world  as  in  times  of 

the  Titans, 
Storming  Olympus  again  in  the  might  of  their 

struggle  for  heaven, 
They  will  battle  with  Gods  on  the  earth  and  the 

air  and  the  ocean, 
Till   the   Underworld  sunless   will   rumble    and 

quake  in  its  terror." 

Here  a  youth  stepped  forth,  he  had  recently 

come  from  the  Northland, 

Tall  Hesperion,    who  from   a  dream   had  been 
roused  by  the  story, 


THE   SINGEE   OF  ASCRA.  141 

Roused  by  the  mention  of  Giants,  the  dwellers  of 

mountain  and  iceberg, 
Calling  to  mind  his  own  far  country  in  landscape 

and  legend. 
Thus  he  spake  in  response  to  the  poet  of  Ascra 

foretelling : 

"  Truth  you  have  spoken,  I  know  it;  those  mon 
sters  are  living  and  thriving 
Just  at  this  moment  far  up  in  the  nebulous  tract 

of  the  Northland 
Where  they  fight  with  the  fire  and  sport  with  the 

frost  of  the  icefield  ; 
Mighty  and   massive   those  Giants  of  cold,  the 

Hyperboreans, 
Never  I  thought  I  would  find  them  here  in  the 

o 

sunbeams  of  Hellas, 
Even  in  story  I  did  not  expect  to  be  told  of  their 

wonders, 
Though  they  be  sitting  in  Tartarus    sooty,  the 

cheerless,  the  hopeless. 
Tell  me  your    name,    O  stranger,  for  I  would 

carry  it  with  me, 
When  I  return  to  my  land  with  the  name  and  the 

song  of  great  Homer, 
Both  of  you  banded  together  shall  go  to  my  home 

in  the  Northland." 

With  a  gleam  of  rude  joy  responded  the  singer 

of  Ascra, 

Fame  he  reproached  and    despised   and    yet  he 
longed  to  be  famous  : 


142  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

"  I    am    called    Hesiod,    younger  in    song    than 

Homer,  jet  older, 
Earliest  Gods  I  have  sung  and  the  latest  of  all  — 

Prometheus, 
Friend  of  poor  lost  man,  and  the  sufferer,  too,  for 

his  goodness; 

Sufferer  God-born  he  lay  in  his  anguish  on  Cau 
casus  lonely. 
But  the  strange  spell  of  my  life !     I  cannot  get 

rid  of  the  woman ! 
On    me  has   rested   a  curse,  the  curse  of  that 

charmer  Pandora, 
Once  created  by  Zeus,  endowed  by  each  God  with 

his  talent, 
Born  with  craft  in  her  heart,  then  sent  upon  man 

for  his  evil. 
Off  and  away!  good  Homer,  I  whisper  the  hope 

of  my  journey ! 
Much  I  have  heard  in  my  land  of  a  girl  now  grown 

to  a  woman, 
Can  I  not  see,  perchance,  now  converse  with  the 

beautiful  maiden? 
Vain  is  my  visit  to-day  if  I  see  not  the  daughter 

of  Homer; 
More  than  Helen  she  is,  aye  more  than  the  gifted 

Pandora/' 

"  Here  comes  Amyntas,"  said  Homer,  "  bear 
ing  the  fragrance  of  Chios  ; 

What  a  perfume  of  the  wine  as  he  steps  in  the 
gate  of  the  garden  ! 


THE   ISINGEE   OF  ASCRA.  143 

Well,  that  boy  is  ti  flower  that  blooms  with  the 
scent  of  old  Bacchus  ! 

I  can  trace  his  path  in  the  air  without  hear 
ing  his  footstep. 

Drink  now  a  cupful  of  tears  that  were  shed  on  the 
beautiful  island, 

Tears  of  the  wine-god  which  tell  not  the  sorrow 
but  joy  of  the  godhood." 

Hesiod  turned  up  the  cup,  and  drank  off  the 

vintage  of  Chios, 
Generous  vintage  of  Chios,  that^lightens  the  soul 

of  the  singer. 
And   that  cup  was   a  wonder,  with    figures    that 

danced  in  a~circle, 
Forms  of  maidens  and  youths   that  danced  in  a 

ring  round  the  wine-cup, 
Wrought  by  the  cunning  of  Chalcon  the  smith,  and 

given  to  Homer  ^ 
When  in  his  youth  he  sang  for  the  prize  and  won 

in  the  contest, 
Won  the  fair  prize  in  a  contest  with  deep-toned 

Ariston  his  teacher. 
So  they  sipped  off  the  wine  from  their  beakers  a 

moment  in  silence, 

Hesiod,  Homer,  the  great  Greek  singers  were  sip 
ping  together 
There  in  Chios  the  wine  that  is  good  for  the  Gods 

and  us  mortals, 
Good  for  libations  to  Gods  and  a  slaking  of  thirst 

unto  mortals. 


144  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

ISoon  they  were  done,  for  they  loved,  not  the 
frenzy,  but  joy  of  the  wine-god. 

"Dearest     my   daughter,    where      art   thou? 

Come  hither  and  lead  me,''  said  Homer. 
But  he  heard  no  response,  so  he  called  out  again  : 

Praxilla ! 
What  is  the  matter  ?  where  is  the  maiden  ?  Gone 

on  an  errand? 
No,  she  was  looking  just  then  in  a  dream   from 

a  nook  of  her  arbor, 

Whence  she  could  gaze  on    the  fair-haired,  blue- 
eyed  youth  of  the  Northland, 
Wondering    what  she  would  do  if  she  went   to 

the  folk  of  the  icefields. 
Of  a   sudden   she    woke    from  her  wonder  and 

sprang  to  her  father, 
Speaking  mid  blushes  :  "I  was  not  gone,  behold, 

I  am  present." 
But   the  flashes  of  red  spake  louder  that  what 

she  had  spoken, 
Truer  than  words  in  telling  the  truth  of  the  heart 

that  is  hidden. 

Then  they  passed  from  the  house  for  a  stroll 
mid  the  trees  and  the  vineyard, 

All  together  they  went  —  the  youths,  the  guests 
and  the  maiden. 

Shady  the  roof  overhead  of  the  leaves  and  the 
twigs  and  the  tendrils, 


THE    SINGER   OF  A  SOU  A.  145 

Leaves  of  the  olive  with  silvery  sparkle  in  sun 
beams  of  Chios, 

Tendrils  of  grapevines  that  clasped  the  twigs 
in  tender  embraces, 

Hinting  of  love  in  a  bower  to  hearts  that  are 
young,  and  to  old  ones. 

Hesiod  saw  with  delight  the  beautiful  daughter 
of  Homer, 

Every  seam  of  his  face  was  illumed  with  the 
torches  of  Eros, 

Fled  are  the  monsters  aforetime,  ended  the  battle 
of  Titans, 

And  the  wormwood  of  words  is  turning  to  sweet 
ness  of  honey ; 

Glances  he  cast  on  the  maiden  and  coined  them 
to  lines  of  a  poet. 

Singer  of  Ascra,  thou  hast  forgotten  thy  tale 
of  Pandora ! 

Also  Typtodes  beheld  in  a  joy  the  daughter  of 

Homer, 
For  the  pedagogue  too  was  a  man,  though  dry  in 

his  learning, 
Dry  the  vast  heap  of  his  learning,  but  it  would 

make  a  great  bonfire, 
If  but  one  little  spark  would  snap  from  the  flamelet 

of  Eros, 
Fall  on  the  ponderous  pile  and  suddenly  set  it  to 


blazing. 


iq 


146  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

O  Typtodes,  pedngogue   Chian,  what  are  these 

flashes  ! 
Thou  hast  forgotten  thy  letters,  forgotten   the 

symbols  Phoenician. 

So  they  walked  and  they  talked  till  they  came 

to  the  view  of  the  waters, 
Wondering  came  they  at  once  to  the  side  of  the 

sea  everlasting 
Rolling  its  waves  from  beyond  and  beyond,  far 

over  the  vision, 
Over  the  tremulous  line  where  heaven  and  earth 

run  together, 

Where  the  God  may  be  seen  as  he  comes  and  de 
parts  from  the  mortal. 
Nearest  the  billow  that  broke  on  the  beach  stood 

the  maiden  Praxilla, 
Just  behind    her   with  look   o'er  the    sea   stood 

youthful  Hesperion. 

All  of  them  gazed  at  the  waves,  and  thought 
fully  dropped  into  silence, 

Seeming  to  peep  far  over  the  bound  of  the  bend 
ing  horizon 

Into  the  realm  beyond  for  a  moment,  and  hear 
its  low  music, 

Feeling  a  gentle  attunement  of  soul  to  the  beat 
of  the  billows, 

Telling  the  pulse  of  the  world  that  is  coming,  the 
world  that  is  going. 


THE  SINGER   OF  ASCEA.  147 

List  to  a  voice !  a  herald  is  hurrying  out  of  the 

city, 
Kunning  along  the  white  sand  of  the  margin  that 

gleamed  in  the  sunshine; 
66  Hearken,"  he  cried,  "  I  announce  the  approach 

of  the  sovereign  woman, 

Poetess  come  from  the  Lesbian  isle  to  pay  hom 
age  to  Homer." 
"  What !  a  woman  poetic!"  broke  out  old  Hesiod 

crabbed, 
With  a  twinge  in  his  lips  as  if  tasting  his  words 

that  were  wormwood, 
With  a  whirl  of  his  fist  as  if  fighting  the  Gods 

like  a  Titan: 
"  What  new  evil  is  born  to  the  suffering  race  of  us 

mortals ! 
This  last  woman,  methinks,  is  worse,  far  worse 

than  the  first  one, 
With  the  gift  of  her  verses  she  comes,  far  worse 

than  Pandora." 

"  Hater  of  woman!"  quickly  responded  the 
daughter  of  Homer, 

Why  are  your  Muses  women,  your  own  Heli 
conian  Muses  ? 

Long  I  have  known  of  you  here,  I  have  heard 
that  tale  of  Pandora, 

Shameless !  you  have  in  that  tale  besmirched  the 
mother  that  bore  you." 


148  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Off  slipped  the  poet  of  Ascra  through  a  lone 
path  by  the  sea-shore, 

Thinking  to  catch  some  vessel  awaiting  the  breezes 
for  Hellas, 

Eager  to  quit  the  sunshine  of  Chios  for  heavy 
Bceotia, 

Leaving  the  Gods  of  Olympus,  to  dwell  once  more 
with  the  Titans. 

Surly  he  sauntered  along  by  himself  till  he 
passed  out  of  vision, 

Hapless  poet  of  Ascra,  dismissed  by  the  daugh 
ter  of  Homer. 

Meanwhile  the   rest  of  the  people  went  back 

from  the  sea  to  the  garden, 
Where  they  sat  down  on  the  stones  which  were 

seats  for  the  guests  in  a  circle, 
Waiting  to  hear  the  first  notes  of  the  beautiful 

songstress  of  Lesbos, 
And  with  a  festival  high  and  a  hymn  to  receive 

her  with  honor. 


vm. 


The  Songstress  of  Lesbos. 


(149) 


ARGUMENT. 

The  person  heralded  is  Sappho,  a  poetess  of  the 
island  of  Lesbos,  and  ancestress  of  the  later  more  fa 
mous  Sappho.  She  had  caught  from  Homer  the  spirit 
of  song  in  her  youth,  and  now  she  comes  to  tell  him  her 
gratitude  for  what  he  had  done.  She  thinks  that  Homer, 
through  his  story  of  Helen,  had  helped  to  save  all  women 
of  Greece,  herself  included,  from  the  fate  of  Helen.  She 
crowns  Homer  ivith  a  garland  for  his  other  pictures  of 
noble  ivomen,  those  found  in  the  Odyssey.  At  this  point 
the  daughter  of  Homer  steps  forward  and  asks  Sappho 
concerning  a  secret.  Hesperion,  who  has  listened  to  the 
songstress  and  has  heard  her  songs  before,  comes  for 
ward  and  asks  a  similar  question.  The  result  is,  the 
two  lovers  are  brought  together  through  Sappho,  the 
poetess  of  love.  But  they  are  suddenly  separated  by  the 
warning  sound  of  a  trumpet. 


(150) 


Who    could  it  be  that  had   come    from  the 

neighboring  island  of  Lesbos, 
Lovely  island  of  love,  and  the  home  of  the  lyre 

of  Hellas? 

It  was  Sappho,  beautiful  Sappho,  poetess  tender, 
Singing  ancestress  of  many  a  Sappho  still  greater 

than  she  was, 
Sister  own  of  the  Muses,  the  sister  too  of  the 

Graces, 
Breathing  the  heart  of  her  sex  into  strains  of  the 

sweetest  of  music, 
Bearing  the   beautiful  name  to  be  borne  by  her 

children  hereafter, 
Sappho,   melodious  Sappho,  first    name   of  the 

songstress  of  Hellas. 

(151) 


152  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Many    a    Lesbian    woman    she    gave    of  her 

musical  dower, 
Tunefully  sharing  the  gift  of  her  song  to  the  soul 

that  might  need  it, 
All  of   them   singing  of  love  with   the  joy,  the 

triumph,  the  sorrow, 
Tasting  the  magical  drop  which  wings  with  a  word 

the  sweet  senses  — 
Lesbian   bees  that  lit   on    each   beautiful  flower 

of  nature, 
Busily  culling  in  song  the   bitter-sweet  honey  of 

passion. 
Sappho   already  had  sung  for  the  prize  in   a 

contest  with  Homer, 
Years  agone  that  was,  when  she  was  the  bloom 

of  a  morning, 
But  when  he  was  a  noonday  turning  and  looking 

to  sundown. 
Both  of  them  sang  before  judges  —  the  prize  was 

a  new-made  tripod, 
Fashioned    to   life  by   Chalcon   with    dexterous 

strokes  of  the  hammer, 
That  it  seemed  ready  to  step  and  to  walk  while 

standing  forever. 
High  and   mighty   the  judges  taken  from  lords 

of  the  islands, 
And   from    rulers  of   cities  on  mainland,  all  of 

them  greybeards ; 

Rigid  and  just  they  were  deemed  in  settling  dis 
putes  of  the  people, 


THE  80NGSTEESS  OF  LESXOS.  l^o 

Rigid  and  just  were  the  judges,  and  still  she  had 

won  before  singing. 
See  but  the  gleam  of  her  eye,  no  furrow  of  frost 

can  resist  it ! 
Every  heart  she  had  won  by  her  look,  and  away 

went  the  tripod ; 
She  herself  was  the  song  that  sang  more  sweetly 

than  Homer, 
Love  and  beauty  were  hers  while  singing  of  love 

and  of  beauty, 
She  was  the  prize  herself,  the  prize  of  the  Gods 

to  the  winner. 
No  true  Greek  could  ever  behold  her,  not  hoping 

possession. 
So  the  tripod  she  easily  won  from  the  first  of 

the  poets, 
By  the  decree  of  the  judges,  whose  law  she  took 

in  her  triumph, 
Took  too  the   hearts   of   the  greybeards  along, 

and  they  could  not  help  it; 
Homer    himself   in   their   place   had   not   given 

another  decision, 
Homer  had  turned  against  Homer,  had  he  been 

one  of  the  judges. 


But  to-day  she  harbored  no  thought  to  tell  of 

that  triumph, 

Rather  ashamed  she  was,  for  she  knew  the  power 
that  gave  it. 


154  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

Years  had  brought  to  her  life  the  golden  return 

of  their  harvest, 
Still  not  chilling  the  warmth  and  the  glow  of  the 

Lesbian  summer. 
Not  too  young  in  her  folly,  not  too  old  in  her 

wisdom, 
Almost  repentant   her   spirit  looked  out  on  the 

world  from  its  windows, 

Casting  its   glances   adown    as   if  it  had  a  con 
fession. 
Stately  she  moved,  yet  modest,  into  the  presence 

of  Homer; 
Courteous  welcome  he  gave  to   the    songstress, 

when  she  began  speaking, 
Not  in  her  own  soft  cadence,  but  tuned  to  the 

sweep  of  his  measures: 

"Thee,  O  fatherly  singer,   I  come  to  visit  in 

Chios, 
Chios,  thy  beautiful  island,  fair  sister  it  is  to  my 

Lesbos ; 
I  would  behold  thee  once  more  in  the  living  form 

of  thy  features, 
Ere  thou  pass  to  Elysian  fields,  last  home  of  the 

poets, 
Who  shall  dwell  as  spirits  beyond  in  the  house  of 

their  genius, 
House  of  high  fantasy  built,  material  stronger 

than  granite, 


THE  SONGSTEESS  OF  LESBOS.  loo 

Holding  eternal  the  echo  of  musical  strains  of  the 
singer. 

There  among  thine  own  Heroes,  there  abiding 
forever, 

Thou  the  Hero  shalt  be  thyself —  in  the  deed  the 
first  Hero  ; 

For  of  all  thy  great  people  of  song,  thou  sing 
ing  art  greatest, 

Singing  high  actions  of  men  thine  action  itself  is 
the  highest. 

There  I  too,  a  poet  mid  happy  Elysian  meadows, 

Hope  in  the  sound  of  thy  song  with  thee  to  be 
living  immortal. 

But  to-day  I  have  come  once  more  in  the  sun 
shine  to  listen, 

I  would  hear  thee  again  this  side  of  the  pitiless 
earth-stream, 

And  would  speak  thee  a  word  — not  to  thee  but 
to  me  it  is  needful, 

Bringing  thy  soul  nearer  mine  —  the  word  of 
sweet  recognition." 

"  Aye,  it  is  sweet,  that  word,"  interrupted  the 

poet  good-humored, 
"Even  to   age   it  is  sweet,  for  myself  I  do  not 

deny  it ; 
More   I  would  hear  of  thy  strain,  so  deftly  thou 

turnest  thy  measures." 

Seeing  herself  reflected  in  Homer,  the  song 
stress  continued : 


156  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

66  Long  ago  I  first  heard  thee  attune  the  high  lay 

in  my  Lesbos, 

I  was  a  girl  in  my  home,  and   thou  wert   a  wan 
dering  minstrel, 
Who  went  singing  through  Hellas  the  wrath  of 

the  Hero  Achilles, 
Singing  the  fateful,  dolorous  tale  of  the  beautiful 

woman, 
Wandering,  singing,  and   tuning  thy  song  to  the 

hearts  of  the  Hellenes. 
Helpful  thou  spakest  to  me  in  the  bloom  and  the 

peril  of  girlhood, 
Mighty  thy  voice  in   my  heart  just  then  in  the 

struggle  of  woman  ; 
At  thy  command  my  soul  was  set  free  and  broke 

forth  into  measures, 

Irresistible  measures  of  longing  in  Lesbian  music. 
Secretly  sang  I  my  earliest  notes  to  a  circle  of 

maidens, 
Who  would  listen  and  love  along  with  the  tender 

vibrations, 
Singing  the  strains  of  the  song  and  touching  the 

strings  of  the  cithern. 
That  was  after  I  heard  thee  hymning  the  story  of 

Helen, 
How  she  was  blinded  and   sank   in  the  spell  of 

sweet  Aphrodite, 
Though  the  Goddess  she  fought  and  rated  with 

heavy  reproaches ; 


THE  SONGSTRESS  OF  LESBOS.  157 

How  by  Paris  of  Troy  she  then  was  led  from  her 

husband, 
Going,    unwilling   to   go,    and   yielding    though 

always  refusing, 
Driving  the  Trojan  away,  yet  drawing  him  back 

by  denial, 
No  was  the  word   of   her   tongue,    but  Yes  the 

response  of  her  action." 

Here  she  stopped  for  a   moment  and  looked 

abashed  at  her  daring, 
Thought  unspoken  when  born  into  speech  has  in 

it  a  demon, 
Who  oft  leaps  from  the  sound  of   the  word  and 

frightens  the  speaker, 
Till  the  courage  returns  to  speak  out  the  heart 

of  the  matter. 
Poetess  was  the  Lesbian,  having  the  right  to  her 

color, 
Having  the  duty  to  utter  the  truth  of  herself  in 

her  singing; 
Warm  were  the  tones  and  strong  were  the  tints 

of  the  thoughts  that  she  painted  ; 
Though   her  words  seemed   growing  forbidden, 

courageous  began  she: 
"  Must  I  confess  it?  Helen  I  felt   in  myself  at 

that  moment ! 
All  of  the  bliss  and  the  blight  of  her  love  swept 

over  my  heart  strings, 


158  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Touching  them  lightly  at  first,  then  smiting  them 

harder  and  harder, 
As  if  I  were  a   lyre  by  fingers  of   Fates   to  be 

played  on, 
Thrilling  to  music  the  ebb  and  the  flow  of   the 

ocean  within  me, 
Making  the  billowy  passion   sing   to  a  measure 

responsive  ! 
Willing  unwilling,  fated  yet  free,  to  myself  but 

a  battle ! 
Yes,  I  confess,  the  Goddess  I  felt,  the  Goddess 

resistless, 
Driving  me  forward  to  do  as   did  the  beautiful 

woman, 

Whispering  dulcet  commands  in  words  of  divin 
ity's  power. 
Yet  Aphrodite  but  spoke  to  what  was  within  me 

already, 
Willing,  unwilling,  fated  yet  free  —  yeGods,  how 

she  smote  me ! 
Till  through  the  cleft   of   my  heart  I  could  see 

down,  down  to  its  bottom! 
With  the  prize  of  the  fairest,  the  penalty  too  has 

been  given, 
With  the  beautiful  women  is  chained  the  spite  of 

a  Fury, 
Who  doth  secretly  lurk  in  the  gift  of  the  Gods  to 

the  mortal. 
But  I  stand  not  alone,  for  all  I  now  stand  in  thy 

presence: 


THE  SONGSTRESS  OF  LESBOS.  159 

Every  wife  in  Lesbos,  in  Chios,  in  all  the  Greek 

islands, 
And  on   mainland  too,  through  Hellas,  through 

midland  of  Argos, 
Far  in  the  isles  of  the  West  and  over  the  sea  to 

the  sundown, 
Has  that  danger  of  Helen,  the  lapse  of  the  soul 

in  its  loving, 
With  the  vengeance  that  follows  the  joy  and  the 

glory  of  beauty. 
In  thy  story  a  witness  I  was  of  all  that  I  might 

be, 
Saw  the  dread  ghost  of  myself  and  fled  from  the 

horrible  specter ! 

Homer,  my  father,  thou  hast  saved  me  from  be 
ing  a  Helen, 
In  thy  song  thou  hast  suffered  and  saved  all  men 

and  all  women 
Winning  thy  soul  to  themselves  in  its  story  of 

trial  and  rescue. 
I  had  been  taken  to  Troy,  if  thy  word  had  never 

been  spoken, 
All  the  daughters  of  Greece   thou  hast  rescued 

from  fleeing  with  Paris, 
Though  his  city  has  fallen,  again  he  had  come  to 

Achaea, 
Were  it  not  that  thy  song  keeps  the  warning  alive 

and  the  judgment. 
Troy  still    stands    in  the  world    and  holds  in  its 

citadel  Helen, 


160  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

Only   in   song,  thy  song,  is   it   taken  forever,  O 
Homer." 


There  she  stopped  on  the  height  of  her  thought, 
the  Lesbian  songstress, 

Whence   she   could   see  far   over  the  sky-bound 
limit  of  Hellas ; 

Soon   in   sweet  low   tones   responded   the   poet 

prophetic : 

"Gracious  words  thou  hast  spoken  and  dear  to 
me,  beautiful  woman; 

Singing  the  peril  of  beauty  in  soft,  warm  words 
of  thy  measures; 

Muse  among  Muses  the  tenth  for  thy  strain  hence 
forth  I  shall  name  thee, 

Aye,  for  thy  love   the   tenth   Muse  I  shall  name 
thee  to  nations  hereafter, 

Who  thy  honor  will  sing  beyond  the  far  streams 
of  the  Ocean, 

First  of  the  women  of  Hellas  to  build  the  melo 
dious  poem, 

Chastely  chanting  thy  lay  to  the  wives  and  maid 
ens  of  Lesbos. 

Thou  wilt  be  followed  by  thousands  of  songsters 
along  down  the  ages, 

Thine  is  the  musical  prelude  of  forests  of  night 
ingales  singing. 

Women   preserve   the   story  and   song   as   they 
nourish  their  infants, 


THE  SONGSTRESS  OF  LESBOS.  161 

Who  must  be  reared  on  the  voice  as  well  as  the 

milk  of  the  mother; 
Nature  makes  her  sing,  she    must  die  or  sing  to 

her  baby ; 
Motherly  harmony  is  her  first  gift  to   her  child, 

and  the  greatest. 
What  a  world  I  see  rising  before  me,  the  world 

of  the  woman ! 
Beautiful  Helen  again  shall  be  sung,  aye,  more, 

she  shall  sing  too, 
Taking  herself   Troy   town,  not    conquered  but 

conquering  Paris; 
She   shall  be  the  new  Hero  Achilles,  in  action 

heroic, 
Gods  I  as  I  see  I  must  speak !   she  also  shall  be 

the  new  Homer." 

Down  fell   the  word   like   a  blow,  surprising 

even  the  speaker, 
Who   by  the  spur  prophetic  was  driven  beyond 

his  own  knowledge  ; 
But   on    the    spot   she  snatched  up  the  talk,  that 

Lesbian  songstress, 
For    she   still  had  a  weight  on  her  heart  to  be 

lifted  by  speaking : 
"How   we   look   at  ourselves  in  thy  tale  of  the 

beautiful  woman ! 
Our  warm  heart  thou  hast  felt,  its  ready  response 

and  the  peril. 

11 


162  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

All  our  circle  is  drawn,  the  trial,  the  fall  and  the 

sorrow. 
Then   the   return   of  the  soul,  the  rise  and  the 

grand  restoration ; 
Helen  estranged  is  restored  to  her  own,  restored 

to  herself  too. 
In  her  marvelous  tale  I  can  see  the  past  and  the 

future, 
All   the  life  of  our  people  unfold  to  the    story 

of  Hellas. 
But  still  more  than  Hellas  I  watch  in  the  lines  of 

her  image :  — 
This  whole   round   of  existence   on    earth,  hard 

destiny  human, 
With  the  rise  and  the  drop  in  the  struggle  of  good 

and  of  evil, 

Now  on  the  up  and  now  on  the  down  of  the  life- 
stroke  eternal, 
Measuring  cycles  of  pain  and  of  gain  to  the  beat 

of  the  master." 

Here  she   stopped  for  a  moment,  lost   in  the 

reach  of  her  thinking, 
Which  ran  over  the  bounds  of  her  speech  in  the 

stress  of  .her  spirit; 
Soon  again   she  came  back  to  herself  and  spoke 

Greek  unto  Homer : 
"Not  alone  the  rise  from  the  fall,  thy  beautiful 

Helen, 


THE  SONGSTliESS  OF  LESBOS.  163 

But   the  woman   unfallen   is  also  thy  gift  to  us 

women  — 
She  who  never  could  lapse  from  herself  in  trial 

the  sorest. 
Now  let  me  crown  thy  brow  with  this  wreath  for 

Penelope  faithful, 
For  Arete,  the  mother,  who    dwells  in  the  heart 

of  her  household, 

For  Nausicaa  too,  the    maid    of  all  maidens  for 
ever. 
Take  this  gift  from  thy  children,  thou    art    the 

father  of  Hellas ! 
Which  has  been  born  to  thy  song  and  trained  to 

the  step  of  thy  music, 
Which  will  go  singing  thy  strains  down  Time,  in 

joy  and  in  sorrow, 
With  tho  echo  repeating  itself  in  all   nations,  O 

Homer." 

Thus  spake  Sappho,  the  soft-speaking  Sappho, 

sweet  Lesbian  songstress, 
Graceful  she  stepped,  and  loving  she  laid  on  his 

temples  the  garland, 
Plucked  by  her  hand  and  wove  to  a  crown  of  the 

leaves  of  the  laurel. 
Echoing  shouts  of  approval  rang  back  from  the 

hills  and  the  sea-shore, 
Even  the  wavelets,  trying  to  walk,  had  come  up 

to  the  bank-side, 


164  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Trying  to  talk  had  murmured  afar  their  billowy 
answer. 

Sweetly  the  rhythm  she  spoke,  her  spirit  had 
caught  it  from  Homer, 

And  the  heroic  hexameter  yielded  to  lips  of  a 
woman, 

Tamed  by  her  gentle  caress  into  lines  of  mel 
lifluous  movement, 

Though  it  was  used  to  the  clangor  and  clash  of 
the  onset  of  battle. 

Now  the  poet  has  heard  in  tenderest  tones  of  the 
songstress, 

Touched  with  Lesbian  tints,  the  tune  of  his  own 
mighty  measure 

Softened  quite  to  the  whisper  of  love  in  its  deli 
cate  cadence, 

Sung  in  praise  of  himself  for  singing  the  praises 
of  woman, 

Showing  her  highest  worth,  not  sparing  her  blame 
ful  in  error. 

Fairest  reward  of  the  bard,  when  he  harks  to  the 
heart  of  his  verses 

Beating  out  of  a  bosom  that  throbs  in  a  joy  to  his 
music, 

Flowing  from  lips  that  he  loves,  like  a  soft  suc 
cession  of  kisses. 

But  behold !  another  fair  woman  steps  up  to 
the  front-line, 


THE  SONGSTRESS  OF  LESBOS.  165 

Forward   she  moves  to   that  presence,  it  is  the 

daughter  of   Homer, 
Who  in  a  gleam   of  her    sunshine  embraces  the 

songstress  of  Lesbos, 

And  then  speaks  in  low  tones  what  her  looks  al 
ready  are  telling: 
"  Thou  hast  uttered  the  word  of  my  heart  to  thy 

music,  O  Sappho, 
Word  which  often  has  beaten  the  wall  of  my  lips 

for  delivrance, 
Always  in  vain,  for  left   to  myself   I  never  can 

say  it ; 
But  in  the  warmth  of  thy  speech   I  can  feel  the 

hot  beat  of  my  bosom, 
And  that   struggle  of  thine   and  of  Helen's  has 

sung  me  my  battle. 
Deep  is  the  joy  of   my  soul,  and  yet  I  have  with 

it  a  trembling, 
I  have   given   myself  all    away,  and  yet  I  must 

keep  me, 
Sweet  is  every  moment    of  life,    and   yet  it  is 

bitter. 
What  is  this   riddle  of  pleasure  in  pain  and  of 

pain  in  pleasure  ? 

Would  I  might  fly  from  myself,  and  yet  to  my 
self  I  would  fly  then. 
Tell  me  the  great  surrender  which  will  restore  me 

my  freedom, 
Speak  it  again,  the  magical  word,  the  word  of  my 

weal  now, 


166  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

Overmaking  me  wholly  in  hope  of  the  time  of 

my  ransom. 
I  would  bathe  in  the  stream  of  thy  song  as  in 

waters  of  healing, 
At  thy  voice  my  full  heart  which  before  had  been 

closed,  is  open, 
Like  the  flower  which  bursts  at  the  breath  of  the 

spring  from  its  bud-coat, 
Still  unwilling  to  show  at  first  what  is  hid  in  its 

bosom." 

What  does  this  mystery  mean  which  lurks  in 
the  speech  of  the  maiden? 

Not  quite  clear  to  herself  is  the  meaning  of  what 
she  has  uttered ; 

Nearer  the  Lesbian  songstress  she  drew,  confid 
ing  in  glances, 

Then  in  a  whisper  she  spake,  the  beautiful  daugh 
ter  of  Homer, 

Clinging  to  Sappho,  soft-speaking  Sappho,  the 
helper  of  love-pain: 

"  Tell  me  the  story  once  more  thou  hast  told  so 
often  already, 

I  can  hear  it  again  from  thy  lips  and  never  grow 
weary, 

I  would  hearken  thy  heart  and  live  in  the  strains 
of  its  music; 

Sappho,  O  Sappho,  what  is  this  love  of  the  youth 
and  the  maiden, 


THE   S ONG STRESS  OF  LE SB 0 S.  107 

Which  thou  singest    in  hundreds  of  songs  to  the 
s6norous  cithern?" 


Scarce  had  ended  the  speech  when  both  were 

aware  of  another 
Who  had  entered  their    thought    and    stood  by 

himself  in  their  presence; 
Both  looked  hastily  up,  it  was    the    fair   youth 

of  the  Northland 
Ready  to    speak,    and  his  glances  held  the  t\vo 

women  asunder, 
Since  the  one  of  them  blushed,  and    the    other 

drew  back  in  amazement ; 
Warm    was   his   accent,    though    neither    Ionic, 

2Eolic,  nor  Doric; 
Well  he  could  say  what  he   wanted  and   spake 

to  the  Lesbian  songstress: 
"  Thou  hast  uttered  the  word  of  my  heart  to  thy 

music,  O  Sappho; 
I  a  stranger  am  here  from  afar,  from  the  realm 

of  the  frost-gods, 
Thy  warm  breath  I  have  felt  as  it  wafted  in  words 

from  thy  poems, 
All  the  winter  within  me  has  melted,  and  I  am 

the  summer, 
Tender  summer  of  Hellas  attuned  to  the  lyre  of 

Lesbos. 
All  the  ice  of  the  North  to-day  thou  hast  thawed 

from  my  bosom, 


168  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

As  them  toklest  thy  tale  in  the  tale  of  the  beauti 
ful  woman; 

Helen  I  was  myself,  and  I  sank  in  the  spell 
of  her  passion, 

But  I  was  also  her  spouse,  to  Troy  I  would 
march  for  my  Helen ; 

Aye,  the  Greek  I  must  win,  or  myself  I  shall 
lose  forever." 

Here  he   stopped  for  a  sigh,   then  passed  to 

an  undertone  softly  : 
"  What  is  this  fearful  joy,   and    yet    an  agony 

with  it 
Which  allows  no  rest  in  the   pain  that  is  born 

of  its  pleasure? 

Sweet  is  every  moment  of  life,  and  yet  it  is  bit 
ter ; 
I  had  given  myself  all  away,  before  I  had  known 

it; 
Tell    me   the  cause  of  this  hungering  lingering 

longing  for  something  — 
Sappho,  O  Sappho,  what  is  this  love  of  the  youth 

and  maiden, 
Which  thou  singest  in  hundreds  of  songs  to  the 

sonorous  cithern?  " 

Smiling  she  touched  the  amorous  chords   with 

the  tip  of  her  finger, 

Softly  preluding  the  tones  which  turned  into 
words  in  her  answer  : 


THE  SONGSTRESS  OF  LESBOS.  169 

"  Both  of  you  have  the  same  pain,  and  both  of 
you  have  the  same  pleasure, 

Both  of  you  sing  the  one  song  which  runs  to  the 
very  same  ending  ; 

Even  the  words  of  your  lips  I  notice  are  pairing 
together, 

Yes,  young  people,  I  think  I  can  tell  you  concern 
ing  this  matter, 

Old  is  the  tale  to  the  old,  yet  ever  is  new  to  the 
youthful, 

But  to  the  poet  it  never  can  wear  off  the  gleam 
of  its  freshness. 

Much  in  myself  I  have  studied  the  cause  and  the 
cure  of  this  trouble ; 

What  in  longing  is  sighing  asunder,  the  word 
brings  together, 

Hear  me,  then,  both  of  you,  daughter  of  Homel 
and  son  of  the  Northland  : 

Two  are  still  twain  and  in  pain,  who  were  born 
to  be  one  and  one  only. 

Give  me  two  hands  — I  shall  join  them  to  one  in 
mine  own  at  a  heart-beat." 

Sappho  set  down  her  sonorous  shell,  to  the  pair 

she  drew  nearer, 
Till  between  them  she  stood  and  secretly  reached 

out  on  both  sides, 
Took  two  hands  in  her  own  and  laid  them  willing 

together, 


170  HOMER  IX  CHIOS. 

Which  of  themselves,  with  a  grip  like  Fate,  were 
clasped  in  a  promise, 

While  the  eyes  at  each  other  shot  fiery  ratifica 
tion. 

Meantime  the  songstress  was  chanting  a  lay  of 
the  doings  of  Eros, 

Singing  for  others  she  sang  to  relieve  her  own 
heart  of  its  travail, 

For  the  old  wound,  broken  open,  could  only  be 
stanched  by  the  love-song. 

Hark!  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  rolls  over  the 

hills  in  the  distance  ! 
What  can  it  mean,  interrupting  this  moment  of 

j°y  by  a  startle? 
There !   once  more  it  is  rolling,  it  sends  on  its 

waves  a  light  shudder. 
Each  Jet  go  the  firm  grip  of  the  hand  in  the  shock 

of  the  warning. 

But  the  daughter  has  gone  and  whispered  aside 
to  her  father ; 

What  did  she  say  to  him  there  as  she  leaned  to 
his  ear  with  her  blushes? 

Joyful  he  was  at  the  word  and  louder  he  spoke 
than  a  whisper : 

"  Happy  I  am  —  I  hnvc  it  foreseen — let  me 
pledge  you  together ; 

Sorrowful  too  —  ye  both  have  to  leave  me  be 
hind  —  leave  Hellas ; 


THE  SONGSTRESS  OF  LESBOS.  171 

Still  I  feel  you  will  take  me  along  to  the  land  of 

the  future, 
Aye,  you  will  take  our  Hellas  along  and  preserve 

it  forever." 

Louder,  nearer,  sterner,  resounded  the  blast  of 

the  trumpet, 
Bearing  command  it  seemed  and  bidding  to  wait 

for  the  message  ; 
Still  no  person  appeared,  but  a  ruler  was  surely 

behind  it, 
For  authority  spoke   unworded  in  tones  of  the 

trumpet, 
Strangely  attuned  to  the  roll  of  the  thunder,  the 

voice  of  the  Heavens. 

In  response  to  the  note   of  forewarning  spake 

Homer  prophetic: 
"  Nay,  not  yet,  not  yet  —  the  tie  is  not  yet  to  be 

fastened, 
First  this  flame  must  be   curbed  and   subdued  to 

the  oracle  coming, 
Else  it  will  burn  down  the  world,  like  Troy,  in  a 

grand  conflagration; 
No  more  Helens  —  one   Helen  is  surely  enough 

for  all  ages  — 
Bravely  renounce  the  sweet  thought,  and  prove 

yourselves  worthy,  renouncing; 
Bravely  renounce  and  renounce  till  the  law  hath 

declared  its  fulfillment." 


172  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Louder  responded  to  Homer  the  blast    of  the 

ominous  trumpet, 
Louder,  nearer  it  rolled   and  mingled  its  sound 

with  his  sentence. 
As  if  giving  the   strength  of  its  stroke  to  the 

words  of  the  poet, 
Who  still  added  his  warning  to  souls  that  might 

be  impatient: 
"  Something  else   is  announced,  the  best   is  to 

wait  for  the  message ; 
It  is  near  —  the  tramp  can  be  heard  —  now  wait 

for  the  message." 


IX. 


Psalmist   of  Israel. 


(173) 


ARGUMENT. 

David,  King  of  Israel,  comes  to  visit  Homer,  having 
heard  the  songs  of  the  Greek  poet  sung  by  Mesander,  born 
m  Cyprus,  a  Hellene  and  a  representative  of  his  race, 
the  Hellenes  (pronounced  as  two  syllables)  among  Semi 
tic  peoples  —  Phoenicians  and  Hebrews.  The  two  great 
poets  sing  for  each  other,  and  in  their  songs  they  give 
the  Greek  and  the  Hebrew  views  of  the  world.  The  po 
ems  of  Homer  and  the  psalms  of  David  have  just  been 
written  in  the  new  alphabet  of  Phoenician  letters;  Typ- 
todes  and  Mesander  have  copies  of  the  two  works. 
David  and  Homer  sing  several  times,  each  recognizes 
the  greatness  and  worth  of  the  other.  They  become  warm 
friends,  as  from  Chios  they  look  out  upon  the  future  to 
the  westward.  Hesperian  and  Praxilla  are  betrothed, 
and  King  David  stays  to  take  part  in  celebrating  the 
marriage  on  the  morrow. 


(174) 


Suddenly  after  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  that 

rolled  from  the  mountain 
Followed  a  wave   of   deep  voices  of  song  that 

swayed  to  the  sea-swell, 
Choiring  in  tune  to  the  strings  of  the  harp  and 

the  tones  of  the  timbrel, 
Mid  the  clash  of  the  cymbals  and  drum,  and  the 

clangor  of  cornets, 
Loudly  preluding  new  strains  to  be  joined  to  the 

music  of  Hellas, 
First   to-day,  where   rises  melodious   Chios    in 

billows, 
Chios,  the  beautiful  island,  whose  eye  is  the  gar^ 

den  of  Homer. 
Slowly  a  caravan  wound  through  sinuous  turns 

of  the  mountain, 

(175) 


176  HOMER  //V  CHIOS. 

Shone  as  it  rolled  into  vision    out  of  the  azure 

horizon ; 
Over  the  hilltops  it  heaved,  it  seemed  to  be  hung 

from  the  heavens ! 
Gaily  it  glistened  afar  with  the  gleam  of  its  gold 

and  its  purple ; 
Precious  stones  of  the  East,  the  onyx,  the  opal, 

the  diamond, 
Peeped  with  a  thousand  eyes  from  the  front  of 

the  column  advancing, 
Peeped  and  sparkled  and  shot  in  a  dance  with  the 

sunbeams  of  Chios. 

«*  What  high  pomp  of  a  monarch   is  that  and 

where  is  he  going?  " 

Each  one  asked  of  his  neighbor,  who  gave  no  re 
sponse  to  the  question, 
For  he  knew  nothing  to  say,  but  stood  and  gazed 

in  his  wonder. 
Statelier  moved  the  procession  while  nearer    it 

came,  still  nearer, 
Till  it  had  reached  to  the  door  where  inside  was 

sitting  Homerus, 
Sitting  not  far  from  the  hearth  by  the  altar  he 

made  for  the  Muses, 
With  his  soul  in  a  song  he  sat  there  and  heard 

what  was  coming. 

Royally  rode   forth  a   man,    dismounted   and 
stood  at  the  entrance, 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  ISRAEL.  177 

All  the  radiant  train  of  his  followers  with  him 
dismounted  ; 

What  a  spangle  of  gems  and  twinkle  of  jewels 
like  starlight ! 

Dark  was  the  eye  and  crispy  the  hair  and  brown 
the  complexion, 

Strong  was  the  curve  of  the  nose  of  the  King, 
like  the  beak  of  an  eagle, 

As  it  darts  from  its  fastness  of  rock  on  the  cow 
ering  rabbit. 

Yet  how  soft  lay  his  lip  underneath  the  fierce 
hook  of  the  nostrils 

As  if  nought  but  compassion  he  knew,  and  could 
utter  love  only ! 

Merciful  downward  to  earth  and  prayerful  up 
ward  to  heaven 

Ran  his  glances,  while  under  them  glowed  the  tire 
of  his  daring. 

In  a  lofty  obeisance  he  raised  up  finger  to  fore 
head, 

Jeweled  lightnings  leaped  from  his  hand  to  the 
eyes  of  beholders, 

Making  them  blink  in  the  flash,  and  answer  the 
sport  of  the  sparkles. 

Then  he  murmured  low  tones  of  a  something  in 
syllables  foreign, 

To  the  man  who  stood  at  his  side,  and  who 
seemed  to  be  waiting, 

Eager   to  let  the  fountain  of  speech  gush  up  to 


the  sunlight. 


l-J 


178  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

That  was  a  different  man  from  the  rest  of  the 

men  of  the  Monarch  ; 
Not  the  same  turn  of  the  features  he  had,  and  not 

the  same  stature ; 

He   was  named  Mesander — the  versatile,  clear- 
toned  Mesander, 
Knovver  of  speech,  reconciler  of  men,  interpreter 

famous, 
He  was  the  tongue  of  the  King  who  bade  him  tell 

of  the  journey. 
Hark !  he  is  speaking,  now  list  to  his  voice !  his 

words  are  Hellenic ! 
Thus  he  spoke  in  the  rhythm  and  speech  familiar 

to  Homer: 

"  Hail  to  thee,  poet,  thou  song  of  the  West, 

and  also  its  prophet ! 
Humbly  we  pray  thee  to  give  us  to-day  a  glimpse 

of  th}'  treasures, 
And  of  our  own   we  gladly  shall  grant  what  we 

can  in  requital. 
This  high  Monarch  has  heard  thy  strains  in  the 

home  of  his  people, 
Over   the  roar    of  the   seas,  beyond   Phoenician 

Sidon, 
Where   dwells  Israel's  seed  in   the  holy  land  of 

Judea. 
In  his  palace  he  listened  with  pain  to  the  sorrows 

of  Priam, 
Deeply  forefeeling   in  Troy  and  its  fall  the  fate 

of  his  city, 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  ISRAEL.  170 

Sacred  Jerusalem,  set  on  a  hill  by  good  Abraham's 

children. 
Also  he  followed   in  hope   the   devious  path  of 

Ulysses, 

In  whose  return  he  beheld  the  return  of  his  peo 
ple  from  bondage, 
When  they  fled  through  the  sea  and  the  wilderness 

drear  out  of  Egypt. 
High   beat   the   wish   in  his   heart  and  rose  to  a 

longing  resistless, 
Thee  to  behold,  the  singer  of  Hellas  — he  too  is 

a  singer  — 
Ere  the  dark  Fates  of  Death  shall  clutch  thee  and 

hale  thee  to  Hades. 
He   has  stepped  down   from  his  throne  to  pay 

thee  a  visit  of  honor, 
Leaving  his  own  far  away,  he  has  corne   to   the 

country  of  Javan, 
Turning  the  point  of  his  law,  which   keeps   him 

aloof  from  the  stranger. 
Greatest  of  musical  Hellenes,  thou,  the  voice  of 

the  Muses 

Singing  forever  down  time  and  making  thy  lan 
guage  eternal, 
Homer,  before   thee   stands   Israel's    sovereign, 

singer,  King  David." 

Such  were  the  words   of   Mesander,  the  em 
bassy's  eloquent  spokesman, 
He   in  Cyprus  was  born,  and  long  he  had  lived 
with  Phoenicians, 


180  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

Learning  their  manners    and    speech,    when  he 

came  as  sailor  to  Sidon  ; 
Also  he  traded  with  Tyre,  when  Hiram  was  king 

of  the  country, 
Hiram,  the  King  of   rich  Tyre,  the  friend  and 

ally  of  David. 
Skillful  in  talking  the    tongues,    Mesander   had 

seen  many  nations, 
Noting  the  merits  of  each,  he  spoke  the  language 

of  concord, 
Artful  in  dealing  with  men,  he  was  often  chosen 

as  envoy, 
Wandering  over  the  world,  as  interpreter  came 

he  to  Jewry, 
Even  a  poet  he  was  and  doubly  was  dear  to  King 

David. 
But  he  remained  a  good  Greek,  although  he  was 

born  on  the  border, 
Quite  on  the  line  where   Shem  and  Japhet  have 

fought  for  dominion 
All  through  the  ages,  and  mingled  in  battle  the 

blood  of  their  children. 
Greek  though  he  was,  Mesander  partook  of  them 

both  in  his  spirit, 
Sought  to  keep    peace  between    the   combative 

souls  of  the  brothers, 
Sought  to  muke  each  understand  the  greatness 

and  worth  of  the  other, 
Deftly  uniting  the   East  and   the  West   in   the 

truth  that  is  common. 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  ISUAEL.  181 

Good  was  the  Greek  and  yet  he  was  vain,  the 

showy  Mesander 
Called  by  the  envious  Hebrew,  although  beloved 

by  King  David; 
Vain  of  his  gift  he  was,  of  his  gift  in  the  tongues 

and  in  song  too. 
How  he  would  strut  when  he  made  a  good  speech, 

or  perchance  a  good  verselet ! 
He  could  put  on  more  airs  than  David  and  Homer 

together. 

When  Mesander  had  spoken,  the  King  looked 
around  for  a  moment ; 

Lo  !  he  is  stopped  in  his  look,  he  is  caught  in  the 
glance  of  fair  Sappho, 

Tranced  by  her  face  and  her  figure  he  cried : 
"  What  a  beautiful  woman  ! 

How  would  she  like  to  appear  in  my  palace,  a 
daughter  of  Israel, 

Aye,  a  wife  to  the  King,  and  a  light  of  Greek 
beauty  to  Hebrews!  " 

Sappho  looked  on  the  ground,  she  knew  the  lan 
guage  of  glances, 

Sappho  knew  the  language  of  love,  even  when  it 
is  silent, 

Though  she  did  not  understand  the  Hebrew,  the 
language  of  David, 

And  Mesander  kept  still,  for  he  honored  the  Les 
bian  songstress. 


182  HOMER  IN-  CHIOS. 

Then   to  the  words   of  Israel's   Monarch    re 
sponded  Homerus, 

"  Welcome,  O  friend,  to  the  isles  of  the  sea,  to 
the  land  of  fair  Hellas, 

Enter  my  garden  and  home,  to  me  thou  shalt  be 
as  a  brother ! 

Thy  great  name  I  have  heard,  it  was  borne  from 
the  realm  of  Phoenicians, 

By  the  Tyrian  princes  who   trade  in  their  ships 
with  Greek  merchants. 

Sweet  though  faint  is  the  shred  of  thy  song  in  the 
land  of  Achseans, 

Floating  over  the   sea  from  the  East  to  the  tune 
of  the  sunrise. 

How  I  have  longed  to  list  to  your  Muses,  so  lofty, 
so  holy ! 

Now  the  moment  has  come  ere  I  pass  into  pitiless 
Hades ; 

Oft  in  my  heart  I  have  felt  you  had  something  I 
had  not,  but  needed. 

Strike  the  harp !  sing  the  song  !  one  burst  of  your 
heavenly  music ! 

And  of   your  God  I  would  know  through  melo 
dious  lips  of  his  servant, 

For  we  all  have  need  of  the  God,  be  he  one,  be 
he  many, 

Dwelling  in  man  and  the  world,  over  Hellas  en 
throned  or  Judea. 

Tell  me  the  story  of  trials  I  heard   concerning 
your  people, 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  1SUAEL.  183 

As  from  bondage  it  fled   with  its  God  from   the 

land  of  the  Nile-stream ; 
That,  methinks,  is  the  story  of  man,  to  be  told 

him  forever, 
Oft  repeating  itself  in  his  life  and  the  life  of  the 

nations. 
We  the  Greeks  have  also  divinely  been  put  under 

training, 
Through  sore  trial  our  Gods  have  tested  the  love 

of  their  people, 
Tested  our  mettle  Hellenic  to  do  the  grand  task 

of  the  ages; 
Over  to  Troy  we  went  and  we  fought  ten  years 

for  our  heirship, 
Asia  we  had  to  assail  that  we  save  our  beautiful 

Helen." 

Then  the  dark  king  of  tiie  East  laid  off  his  gar 
ments  of  purple, 

And  a  golden  harp  he  took  from  the  hand  of  its 
holder, 

Harp  of  ten  strings  to  which  he  chanted  the 
praise  of  Jehovah. 

Also  his  voice  he  essayed  in  a  caroling  upward 
and  downward; 

Sweet  were  the  tones  which  he  rapidly  touched 
in  the  strains  of  his  prelude, 

Soft  were  the  notes  which  he  secretly  hummed 
to  himself  for  the  trial, 


18-1  UOMEE  IN   CHIOS. 

Gently    he    glided   to    words,    that  wedded   the 
tender  vibrations, 

Making     the   measures    of    song  which   skillful 
Mesander  translated. 

Homer  hearkened,  laying  his  soul  to  the  lips  of 
King  David, 

Who   sang  Israel's   strain  till   it  filled  the   fail- 
garden  of  Chios  : 

> 

"Happiest   nation    of   nations   I  sing,  whose 

God  is  Jehovah; 
Blessed  forever  and  ever  the  people  whom  He 

hath  chosen, 
Looking  down  from  the  heavens  the  children  of 

men  He  beholdeth, 
Israel's  children  He  loves,  but  His  law  is  the  law 

of  the  nations. 
Praise  Him,  my  soul,  the  one  holy  God,  He  is  the 

Almighty; 
Praise  Him,  the  King  of  the  Kings,  the  Monarch 

of  earth  and  of  heaven, 

Whose  thoughts  are  a  great  deep,  and  His  right 
eousness  like  a  great  mountain ; 
Trust  in  the  Lord  and  do  good,  for  He  laughs  at 

the  cunning  of  evil, 
Its  keen  sword,  when  drawn  against  Him,  shall 

pierce  its  own  bosom. 
He  is  the  law  of  the  world,  which  to  men  He  has 

mightily  given, 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  ISRAEL.  185 

He  is  the  law  of  the  world,  and  He  is  also  the 
judgment. 

List  to  His  voice  as  it  speaketh  aloud  in  the  roll 
of  the  thunder, 

See  Him  fold  up  the  sea  in  His  hand  like  a  gar 
ment  of  waters, 

Hark  how  the  cedars  of  Lebanon  crash  in  the 
breath  of  His  anger ! 

Hark  to  His  law,  ye  nations:  No  other  God  is 
before  me/' 

In  the  might  of  his  mood  sang  the  King  high 

strains  of  his  language, 
Which  Mesander  the  spokesman    turned  to   the 

speech  of  Homerus ; 
To   the   hexameter's  swing   he  broke   the   wild 

cadence  of  Hebrew, 
Tuning  Israel's  heavenly  flight  to  the  tread  of  a 

heathen, 
Training  in  bounds  of  Greek  measure  the  sweep 

of  divine  aspiration. 
Oft  he  had  done  so  before,  and  now  he  would 

peep  in  a  scroll  there, 
Made  of  a  papery  rind  of  Egyptian  reeds  from 

the  Nile  fens, 
Which  he  held  in  his  hand,  scratched  over  and 

over  with  scribblings, 
Curious  mystical  signs  which  seemed  to  whisper 

in  secret, 


186  HOMER  IN~  CHIOS. 

Only  by  him  understood  was  the  talk  of  those 

signs  and  their  meaning, 
Still  their  voice  was  not  hoard,  for  they  talked  in 

a  flash  to  his  eyesight. 

But  at  last  he  raised  up  his  eyes  and  folded  his 

writing, 
And  in  a  glow  he  spoke,  that  Grecian  of  Cyprus, 

to  Homer : 
"  Give  him  the  roar  of  thy  seas,  as  they  rise  like 

Icarian  billows, 
Give  him  the  swell  of  thy  heart  as  it  heaves  in 

the  height  of  the  battle, 
Give  him  the  roll  of  thy  measures  in  waves  of  the 

blue  Hellespontus ; 
O  Maeonides,  sing  him  thy  Zeus,  the  God  of  the 

Hellenes, 
Father  whose  children  are  Gods  who   come  with 

their  help  to  us  mortals. 
Sands  of  the  desert  below,  and  glories  of  Heaven 

above  us 
He  has  sung  —  now  give  him  thy  concord  of  man 

and  the  world  here, 
Give  him  thy  concert  of  Earth  and   Olympus, 

divine  and  the  human, 
And  for  thee  I  shall  do  what   for  him    I   tyave 

done  —  translate  thee." 

Softly  Homer  began  with  a  prayer   that  fell 
into  measures: 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  ISRAEL.  187 

"Zeus,  high  father  of  Gods  and  of  men,  Olym 
pian  father ! 

Son  thyself  of  old  Cronus,  consumer  of  all  of  his 
children, 

Thou  has  escaped  from  his  maw  and  dethroned 
thy  pitiless  parent, 

Who  would  be  all  to  himself  in  the  world,  with 
out  even  offspring. 

Hear  me,  O  Zeus,  me  the  mortal,  but  loving  thy 
worship  and  order ! 

Not  by  thyself  dost  thou  rule  from  the  top  of 
snowy  Olympus, 

Highest  of  all  thy  gifts  thou  dost  share  unto 
others  —  thy  godhood,* 

Many  divinities  sit  in  a  circle  majestic  around 
thee, 

Gods  and  goddesses  too  are  thy  sons  and  thy 
beautiful  daughters, 

Whom  thou  hast  raised  to  thy  heights  and  with 
thee  hast  made  to  be  rulers, 

Ruling  the  air  and  the  earth  and  even  the  under- 

o 

world  sunless, 

Ruling  the  man  in  his  deed  and  also  his  inner 
most  spirit. 

Still  thou  art  ever  the  first  among  many,  in  mind 
and  in  power, 

And  in  authority  over  the  Gods  thou  art  surely 
the  sovereign, 

Let  any  deity  dare  to  question  thy  might  for  a 
moment. 


188  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

Down  to  black  Tartarus  whirls  he  to  sit  with  the 
hopeless  Titans." 

Skillful  Mesander  now  did  his  best  to  turn  this 

to  Hebrew, 
Toning  a  word  here  and  there  to  suit  the  fine  ear 

of  King  David, 
Fitting  to  music  the  thought,  as  it  flowed  from 

the  heart  of  the  singer; 
But  in  spite  of  his  skill,  the  translation  ran  rough 

in  hard  places. 
Free  Greek  speech  would  not  always  dance  to 

the  tune  of  Semitic, 
Homer's  hexameters  broke  in  the  back    at  the 

gait  of  the  psalm-song, 
And  the  Monarch  would  scowl  when  he  heard  of 

the  Gods  in  the  plural, 
Yet  he  would  smile  to  himself  at  the  noise  about 

beautiful  Helen, 
For  the  God  of  the  King  must  be  one,  though  his 

wives  may  be  many; 
Gods  of  the  Greek  may  be  many,  his  wife  is  the 

one,  the  one  only, 
Whom  to  save  he  is  ready  to  fight  ten  years  with 

the  Orient. 

Sly    Typtodes   had     slipped  up    behind    and 

peeped  into  the  papers 

Which  the  interpreter  held  in  his  hand  when  his 
reading  had  ended ; 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  ISRAEL.  189 

Then  began  to  address  him  in  whispers  the  peda 
gogue  prying: 

"  What  is  that  script  which  I  see,  that  strange 
miraculous  scribbling? 

Have  you  too  the  mystical  writ  of  symbols 
Phoenician  ? 

Mighty  it  will  be  forever,  preserving  both  David 
and  Homer, 

Rescued  from  sounds  of  the  voice  and  fixed  into 
signs  for  the  vision. 

And  the  schoolmaster  now  will  have  work  in 
each  new  generation, 

Teaching  the  name  and  the  shape  and  the  sound 
of  the  wonderful  letters, 

Till  they  together  be  put  into  words,  the  holders 
of  all  things. 

Then  the  pupil  will  spell  out  the  deed  and  the 
thought  of  aforetime, 

Spurred  by  the  sprig  of  the  laurel  held  in  the 
hand  of  the  teacher. 

That  I  call  progress,  that  is  the  march  of  man 
kind  to  the  better ! 

Nor  will  it  stop  till  every  youth  in  the  land  knows 
the  letters, 

Every  youth  in  the  world  must  know  the  Phoe 
nicians  symbols." 

Ere  Typtodes  had  done,  strong  currents  had 
drowned  out  his  whisper, 


100  HOMEIi  IN-  CHIOS. 

Strong  loud  currents  of  song  that  rose  from  the 

throat  of  the  singer, 
Overflowing  all  bounds  of  the  sea  when  the  tide 

runs  the  highest, 
And  it  came  from  the  fathomless  heart  of  Israel's 

psalmist : 
"Praised  be  Jehovah,    in  Him  is  our  trust,  the 

God  of  our  Fathers, 

From  everlasting  to  everlasting  He  is  the  ruler ! 
In  the  land  of  Egypt  we  toiled  and  we  wept  in 

our  sorrow, 
Slaves    were   Jacob's    children,    but   they  were 

never  forgotten, 
From  the  slime  of  the  Nile  we  fled  to  the  shore 

of  the  Red  Sea, 
Always  we  saw  a  great  hand   reach  out  of  the 

cloud  round  about  us, 
Smiting  the  chains  of  our  bondage  and  pointing 

the  way  of  our  rescue. 

Through  the  walls  of  the  waters  we  crossed  dry- 
shod  on  the  bottom, 
Long  in  the  wilderness  forward  and  backward  in 

trial  we  wandered, 
Till  we  returned  to  our  home,  the  primitive  home 

of  our  Fathers, 
Bearing  the  law  in  our  hearts,  which  was  given  in 

thunders  at  Sinai. 
Sing,  O  my  soul,  the  high  song,  the  return  to 

the  land  of  our  promise, 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  ISRAEL.  101 

Sing  it  for  me  and  for  mine,  and  for  wandering 

millions  hereafter, 
Millions  on  millions  unborn,  the  countless  sons  of 

the  future." 

As  he  ended  he  turned  to  Hesperion,  child  of 

the  Northland, 
Into  whose  shadowy   semblance  he  peered  in  a 

wonder  while  singing, 
For  that  youth  had  the  face  among  faces  which 

look  at  the  speaker, 
Drawing  him  always  secretly  back  to  the  spell  of 

its  gazes, 
Back  to  itself  it  draws  him,  unconscious  of  magical 

power, 
Showing  him  dreamlike  glimpses    of    something 

afar  that  is  coming. 
Thus  the  youth  of  the  North  attracted  the  look 

of  King  David, 
Who  seemed  glancing  into    futurity  throned  in 

that  visage, 
Far-off  futurity  throned  in  the  visage  of  dreamful 

Hesperion, 
As  he  stood  there  beside  the  beautiful  daughter 

of  Homer, 
Who  all  the  future  had  read  in  the  soft  blue  eyes 

of  the  stranger, 
Dreamful    Hesperion,    lately  arrived   from    the 

snows  of  the  Northland. 


192  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Soon  the  poet  of  Hellas  began  once  more  full 

of  fervor, 
Gently  attuning  his  note  somewhat  to  the  music 

of  David : 
44  Singer,  thou  art  of  the  East,    but  thy    strain 

belongs  to  the  West  too, 
In  it  I  hear  the  same  voice  that  to  me  is  the  voice 

of  the  Muses, 
By  whose  help  I  also  have  sung  the  return  of  my 

people, 

That  was  the  sad  return  of  the  haughty  victori 
ous  Argives, 
Coming  from  Troy  in  their  ships  to  their  homes 

on  island  and  mainland; 
Many  were  lost  through  wrath  of  the  Gods,  but 

the  faithful  were  rescued, 
Though  the  path  was  doubtful  and  long  that  lay 

on  the  waters. 
Lately  I  finished  the  tale  which  tells  the  return  of 

Ulysses, 
Who  on  the  passionate  sea  had   to  wander  with 

foolish  companions; 
Much  he    endured   in   his   heart,    and    much   he 

doubted  in  spirit, 

Till  he  came  back  to  his  Ithacan  home,  to  Pene 
lope  prudent, 
Where  in  peace  he  dwelt  till  the  Fates  had  spun 

out  his  life-thread. 
Great  the  return  of   Israel,  hymning  itself  in  all 

peoples, 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  ISRAEL.  W* 

Great  the  return  of  Achaea,  which  also  will  not 

be  forgotten. 
Different  may  be  our  speech,  but  one  at  last   is 

the  meaning, 
Different  may  be  our  blood,  but  it  all  responds  to 

one  heart-beat, 
Different  may  be  our  Gods,  but  the  Man  is    the 

same  in  us  both  here/' 


Spoken     the    winged  word,    uprose   divinely 

Homer  us, 
Reaching   out   with   his  fingers,  he  felt  for  the 

hand  of  King  David, 
Trip-hammer  strokes  of  his  heart  beating  time 

to  the  voice  of  tho  Muses: 
st  Mortals  may  blame  the  Gods  for  their  ill,   but 

it  is  their  own  folly, 
Through  themselves  they  must  perish,  ere  Gods 

are  able  to  smite  them, 
Ate  is  sent  for  by  man,  else  even  the  Gods  could 

not  send  her, 
\Vhat  through  man  the  divinities  do,   is  also  his 

doing, 
His  is  the  deed,  though  the  world  is  divine  in 

which  he  can  do  it. 
But  the  one  deity  truly  is  thine,  the  God   of  the 

ages, 

All  shall  pass  away,  but  He  abideth  forever. 
Hear  my  prophecy,   hear  it  and  weigh  it,  con 
cerning  two  poets 

13 


194  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Standing  in  Chios  and  looking  afar  on  the  worlds 
in  the  sunset; 

One  shall  lift  up  the  soul  from  below  to  the  pres 
ence  immortal, 

And  will  quicken  the  heart  to  worship,  unseen, 
the  Eternal ; 

But  the  other  will  show  the  trial  and  triumph  of 
Heroes, 

Singing  into  his  strains  the  homage  undying  of 
beauty. 

Both  as  brothers  shall  go  down  the  echoing  hall 
of  the  ages. 

Echoing   double    one   voice   from   the  heart  of 
Greece  and  Judea. 

Two  are  the  aisles  in  the  temple  of  song,  Hellenic, 
Hebraic, 

One  is  the  harmony  under  them  both,  the  har 
mony  human, 

Tuning  to  musical  life  the  Man  and  the  God  in 
their  struggle." 

Slowly  the  poet  of  Hellas  drew  back  to  his  seat 

in  the  settle, 
But  his  mind  ran  on  in  its  might,  though  his  body 

was  weary, 
And  he  continued:  "  One  thing  more  my  spirit 

must  tell  thee, 
Hear  now  my  prayer,  O  David,  and  call  it   the 

prayer  of  Homer : 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  ISRAEL.  195 

May  the  son  ever  be  a  much  better  man  than  his 
father!" 

At  the  thought  he  suddenly  turned  and  seemed 
to  be  looking, 

Though  he  was  blind,  he  seemed  to  be  looking  and 
prying  about  him  : 

"  But  I  forget !  I  have  a  new  pupil,  where  is  he? 
Hesperion  ? 

Where  is  Hesperion,  dreamful  youth  of  the  neb 
ulous  Northland? 

And  I  forget  too  my  daughter,  where  is  she? 
Praxilla?  Praxilla? 

Surely  to-day  she  is  roaming,  my  daughter,  my 
sunny  Praxilla !  " 

In  a  moment  the  crowd  was  moving  and  turning 

O  O 

and  looking, 
All    would  peep  at  the  pair  whom  the  poet  had 

coupled  together ; 
What  he  had  joined  in  his  words,  they  surmised 

he  had  joined  in  his  thoughts  too, 
Every  boy  in  the  school  surmised  what  was  going 

to  happen, 
Every  boy  in  the  school  blushed  red  as  if  he  were 

guilty, 
Guilty  of  hiding  away  in   his  heart  an  arrow  of 

Eros, 
Which   had   pricked  him  with  jealousy's    pang, 

though  slyly  secreted. 


196  HOMER  JN  CHIOS. 

First  he  peeped  for  his  rival,  but  found  no  reward 
for  his  peeping, 

Saw  no  Hesperion,  dreamful  youth  of  the  neb 
ulous  Northland, 

Then  he  would  speak  in  low  tones  to  his  neigh 
bor,  who  had  to  make  answer; 

Each  was  disguising  the  timorous  thought  that 
trembled  within  him, 

Each  was  telling  it  too  just  through  his  careful 
disguises ; 

Soon  the  whole  school  was  a  whisper,  asking : 
Where  is  Praxilla? 

Soon  the  whole  school  was  a  whisper,  replying, 
Where  is  Hesperion? 

Crabbed    Typtodes,     the    schoolmaster,    still 

was  present  and  looking, 
But   he  nowhere   saw   what  he  looked  for,  the 

daughter  of  Homer, 
Whom  he  too  would  see  and  would  sue  in  spite 

of  his  wrinkles ; 
Teaching   the   verses   of  Homer,  he  weened  he 

could  teach  the  fair  daughter, 
Writing  Phoenician  letters,  he  thought  he  would 

write  her  a  poem. 
Vain   is   the   effort,    to-day   he   is   wearied  and 

worried  with  waiting; 
In  his  sandals  he  shuffles  along   to  the  side  of 

Mesander, 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  ISRAEL.  197 

Whom  he  somehow  thinks  to  be  kin  to  himself 

in  the  spirit ; 
Him  he  bespeaks  on  a  point  quite  aloof  from  the 

way  of  the  lover: 
"  Long  you  have  dwelt  in  Phoenicia,  you   say, 

and  know  all  its  learning; 
Have   you   the  songs  set  down  in   the  signs  of 

strange  Alpha-Beta, 
Cunning  symbols   of   speech,  that  fix  the   fleet 

breath  of  the  singer?" 
"Yes,"  responded    with    joy   the    dexterous 

spokesman  Mesander, 
"  All   have   been  set  down  in   signs  so  that  we 

can  hear  them  forever 

Only  by  seeing  them,  look,  the  cunning  Phoeni 
cian  symbols ! 
Thousands  of  years  from  now,  yea,  millions  on 

millions  of  ages, 
Men  will  have  but  to  look  on  these  signs  and  will 

hear  King  David, 
Magical  signs  of  the  word,  which  make  the  good 

poem  eternal. 
I  have  all  of  his  songs   scratched  down  on  the 

folds  of  this  scroll  here." 

Lowering  still  his  tone,  Typtodes  spoke  to  Me- 

sander, 

Confidentially  bending  his  head  more  near  while 
speaking : 


198  HOMEE  IN  CHIOS. 

"  I  have  noted  it  well ;  while  you  talked,  I  peeped 

over  your  shoulder. 
But  I  must  tell  you  a  secret,  which  nobody  knows 

of  in  Chios  — 
Long  I  have  wrought  to  set  down  in  these  signs 

the  poems  of  Homer; 
What  a  task  it  has  been  —  the  burning  by  drops 

of  my  heart's  blood! 
It  is  done,  but  yesterday  done,  and  to-day  I  have 

brought  it, 
Hid  in  my  bosom;  toilsome  the  work  but  I  felt 

it  was  worthy, 
Though  I  find  fault  with  the  failings  of  Homer 

and  slash  him  to  fragments ; 
See !  I  have  poured  out  my  life  into  writ,  here 

it  is,  O  Mesander — 
One  small  roll  out  of  many,  the  rest  I  shall  fetch 

from  the  school-house, 
One  short  day  out  of  many,  all  which  have  sunk 

into  Lethe." 
"Surely  no  idler  thou  art,"    said  the  Greek 

from  the  island  of  Cyprus, 
And  thou   movest   along   with   the    world,    the 

schoolmaster  moves  too, 
Spirit  needeth  the  letter,  the  letter  too   needeth 

the  spirit, 
Homer  will  last,  but  the  pedagogue  Chian  will  not 

be  forgotten, 
Who  was  the  first  to  put  into  script  the  song  of 

the  poet, 


THE  PSALMIST  OF  ISRAEL. 


Making  him  sing  forever  in  spite  of  the  Fates, 
the  grim  spinners/' 


Both  of  the  men  had  still  something  to  say  on 

the  matter  of  letters. 
But  they  suddenly  stopped  when  they  heard  the 

voice  of  the  poet 
Not   now   chanting   a  musical  strain  to  the  Gods 

and  the  Heroes, 
But    impatiently    calling     aloud,    "Hesperion! 

Praxilla!" 
Twice  he  repeated,  ''Where  is  Hesperion !  Where 

is  my  daughter?  " 
"  Here  I   am  on  this  side,"  soon  spake  up  the 

youth  of  the  Northland, 
"  Here  I  am  on  the  other,"  responded  the  maiden 

Praxilla. 
Both  of  them  spoke  in  their  joy  as  they  suddenly 

sprang  from  an  arbor, 
Where  they  had  hid  from  the  crowd  for  a  moment 

of  sweet  conversation, 
Words  of  the   twain  now   blended   together  to 

tenderest  music, 
And   their   voice  was  wedded  in  love,  preluding 

the  marriage: 
"For   thy   blessing  we   come,  thy   blessing,  O 

father  Homerus." 

Then  both  kneeled  at  his  side,  brave  youth  and 
beautiful  maiden. 


200  HOMEtt  IN  CHIOS. 

"Rapid  work,  my  children,  too  rapid,  and  yet 

I  confirm  it ! 
Who  can  catch  and  turn  back  in  its  flight  the 

arrow  of  Eros? 
Well   I   foresaw  what   was  coming,    I  knew    in 

advance  the  whole  story. 
Did  you  think  because  I  was  blind,  I  never  could 

see  you? 
All  the   while  I  could  see  you  doing  just  what  I 

intended. 
But   enough !  You  have  my  approval,  take  now 

my  blessing!" 
Laying   each  hand   on  a   head,  he  rose  up  with 

them  together. 

Standing   between  the  twain,  once  more  spoke 

the  poet  to  David  : 
"  Thee  I   beseech,  O  Monarch,  yet  greater  than 

Monarch,  a  Singer, 
Stay   with  me  here,   for  to-morrow  is  given  in 

marriage  my  daughter ; 
Go  to  rest  in  my  chamber  and  wake  up  renewed 

in  the  morning, 
Both   of  us   then  shall  sing  together  the  song  of 

the  wedding, 
Ere  we  send  off  the  pair  to  the  distant  forests  of 

Northland. 
Thou   must  give  them  thy  God,  the  One,  and  his 

high  adoration,     ,•  • 
I  shall  show  them  the  Man,  the  beautiful  Man  in 

his  freedom. " 


X. 

fcnb, 

The  Marriage. 


(201) 


ARGUMENT. 

All  come  together  in  the  morning  for  the  wedding  fes 
tival  of  Hesperian  and  Praxilla.  The  scholars  have  a 
choral  dance  in  honor  of  the  event;  Glaucus  and  Dem- 
odocus  confess  their  great  disappointment.  Sappho 
chants  for  the  pair  her  last  measures  of  love  and  good 
wishes.  Typtodes  brings  as  his  bridal  gift  the  poems 
of  Homer  written  in  the  new  alphabet.  Homer  and 
David  give  to  the  pair  their  blessing  and  with  it  their  two 
books,  which  are  to  be  borne  to  the  new  home,  whither 
the  happy  couple  now  set  forth  on  their  journey. 


(202) 


Up  rose  the  Sun  in  his  car  and  lit  the  Ionian 
heavens, 

Driving  the  timorous  Dawn  far  over  the  sea  to  the 
westward, 

Seeming    to  mount  to  the    sky   in   flames  that 
burst  from  his  glances 

For  some  joy  that  he  felt  and  imparted  to  earth 
and  to  ocean. 

Like  a  bridegroom  he  rose  and  put  on  his  gar 
ments  of  splendor, 

Gold  he  was  strewing  wherever  he  looked  on  the 
land  and  the  water. 

Warm   was   the  thrill  as  he  reached    from  afar 
with  his  radiant  fingers, 

Earth  awoke  at  the  touch  and  sprang  up  respond 
ing  in  music, 

(203) 


204  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Every  creature  was    singing,  even  still  voices  of 

nature 
Chanted  the  hymn  of  the   Sun  as  he  soared  up 

the  sky  in  the  morning. 
Purple  and  scarlet  and  gold  were  his  regal  changes 

of   raiment, 
Jewels  he  flung  with  his  sheen  in  the  lap  of  the 

beautiful  island, 
Which  peeped  forth  from  the  waves  in  a  smile  at 

the  sport  of  the  sunbeams, 
As  from  slumber  it  woke  and  lay  on  the  bed  of 

the  billows. 
Chios  he   kissed  in  a  rapture,  as  if  his   bride  he 

were  kissing, 
All  the  heart  of  the  Sun  was  flowing  to  love  and 

to  marriage, 

As  he  glowed  and  he  glanced  down  into  the  gar 
den  of  Homer. 

Both  of  the  poets  had  risen   from  sleep,  the 

Greek  and  the  Hebrew, 
And  were  sitting  together,  in  joy  saluting  the 

morning, 
Which  from  earth  and  from  heaven  returned  the 

high  salutation. 
"Beautiful  is  this  world  of  Jehovah,"  shouted 

King  David. 
"  Praised  be  his  name,  for  his  law  is  the  law  which 

endureth  forever." 


THE  M^UiRIAGE.  205 

"  Beautiful  is  this  world  of  the  Gods,"  responded 

Homerus, 
"  Beautiful  too  is  the  man,  divinely  upbearing  his 

freedom." 

Thus  they  continued  their  talk,  which  ran  of 

itself  into  measure, 
All  of  their  speech  was  a  song,  and  each  of  them 

sang  to  the  other. 
Two  were  the  strains  on  the  tongue,  yet  both 

reached  down  to  one  key-note. 
Skillful  Mesander  translated  the  twain  and  added 

his  comment. 

Soon  they  all  had  gathered  together  with  David 

and  Homer, 
Hearing  the  note  of  the  East  and  the  West  in  the 

words  of  the  masters. 
Lovely  Sappho   was   present,  the    soft-speaking 

songstress  of  Lesbos, 
But  she  was  silent,  for  eagerly  now  she  heard  the 

new  message, 
Heard  the  voice  of  the   law  as  it  fell  from  the 

lips  of  the  psalmist, 
Though  she  felt  that  the  singer  himself  was  not 

free  of  its  judgment. 
Still  in  her  thought  she  did  not  upbraid  him  who 

rose  after  falling, 
Nor  condemn  what  her  own  tender  heart  had  told 

her  was  human. 


206  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

Shifty  Typtodes,  the    pedagogue  Chiari,  doth 

seem  to  be  absent ; 
No,  lie  is  coming,  yonder  he  shuffles  along  in  his 

sandals, 
He  has  set  down  the  poems  of  Homer  in  symbols 

Phoenician, 
Though  he  won  not  the  daughter,  he  must  be  a 

guest  at  her  marriage. 
Look !  he   hastes  up  the  path,  and   carries   the 

rolls  of  his  paper, 
Rolls  first  made  of  the  rind  of  the  fen-born  rush, 

the  papyrus, 
On  which  is  written  the   word  of  the  poet   for 

ages  hereafter ; 
Book  it  is  called,  the  scribbled  peelings  of  rushes 

of  Egypt. 

Next  were  seen  the  beautiful  youths  who  sang 
in  a  chorus, 

Gracefully  stepping  along,  attuning  their  dance 
to  the  song-beat, 

All  the  youths  of  the  school  were  there  arrayed 
for  the  wedding, 

Spotless  they  shone  in  white  raiment  falling  in 
folds  to  their  motion. 

From  the  East  and  the  West  they  had  come,  all 
joined  the  procession, 

And  they  began  the  high  song  with  a  festal  pray 
er  together, 


THE  MARRIAGE.  207 

Prayer  beseeching  the  presence  divine  of  the 
God  of  Espousals  : 

"Hail  Hymenseus,  hail!  O  come  to  the  island 
of  Chios, 

Come  to  the  glorious  island  of  song  that  is  sing 
ing  thy  praises ! 

Great  is  the  need  of  thy  presence  to  bless  what 
is  going  to  happen, 

For  the  lots  of  marriage  are  now  to  be  drawn  by 
a  maiden, 

Earest  of  maidens  of  Hellas,  the  beautiful  daugh 
ter  of  Homer. 

Be  not  absent,  O  deity,  rule  the  caprices  of 
Fortune ; 

Hail  Hymenoeus,  hail !  make  the  tie  of  the  pair 
everlasting!  " 

David  the  King  drew  near,  and  spake  to    the 

youth  of  the  Northland, 
"  Speed  thee  afar  to  thy  forests,  and  take  this 

maiden  Hellenic, 
Her  thou  must  win  to   thy  love,  for  thou  never 

canst  marry  a  Jewess, 
'Tis  not  allowed  by  the  law  —  no  hope  thou  canst 

have  for  my  daughter, 
Whom  I  have  left  behind   with  the  rest  of  the 

daughters  of  Israel ; 
These  we    keep  to  ourselves  for  the    glory  and 

praise  of  Jehovah. 


208  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

But  unrewarded  thou    shalt  not  pass  from    my 

presence  this  morning, 
All  that  is  best  of  myself,  whatever  is  good  in 

my  nation, 
I  shall  give  as  a  present  to  thee  and  thy  people 

forever. 
It  shall  attune  thee  anew  to  its  song  when  thy 

soul  is  discordant, 
From  thy  fall  it  shall  lift  thee  on  high  with  fresh 

aspiration, 
It  shall  stead  thee  in  trial  the  sorest,   in  death  it 

shall  stead  thee. 
Now  its  words  have  been  written  in  signs  that 

came  from  Phoenicia, 
Musical  sounds  of  the  voice  have  been  set  down 

in  signs  for  the  vision 
On  that  ^Egyptian  peel  of  a  rush,  called  Byblus, 

the  Bible. 
We  have  brought  it  along   on    our    journey  — 

Where  is  it,  Mesander?" 

Here  the  translator  suddenly  stopped  his  talk 
ing  Hellenic, 

Spoke  in  Hebrew  the  word  of  reply  which  has 
not  been  translated. 

Taking  the  folds  of  a  curious  roll  written  over 
with  letters, 

Looking  the  look  of  a  victor,  he  handed  it  soon 
to  the  Monarch. 


THE  MAREIAGE.  209 

Meanwhile  trembling  in  voice  spake  up  good 

father  Homerus, 
66  Now  may  life  pass  away,  the  end  I  have  seen  of 

my  living; 
When   his  work   has   been   done,  not   long  the 

mortal  will  tarry ; 
More  cannot  fall  to  my  lot,  my  hours  henceforth 

are  a  passage  ; 
After   to-day   I   shall   sing  no    more,  the    spirit 

refuses ; 
Words  cannot  tell  what  I  think,  but  bound  the 

flight  of  my  vision ; 
Life  I  have  loved,  for  it  was  a  deed,  and  it  was  a 

song  too, 
But  it  is  done,  and  the  time  draws  near  —  the 

time  of  my  silence, 
When  the  sound  of  my  song  will  be  but  an  echo 

repeating, 
Ever  repeating   the  voice  which  I  flung  on  the 

breezes  of  Hellas. 
Daughter,  go ;    I  send  thee  far  off  to  the  folk  of 

the  Northland, 
Thither  now  bear  my  song,  for  it  is  my  gift  to 

the  ages  ; 
May  thy  children  be  heirs  of  the  lay  and  the  life 

of  Greek  Homer." 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  parent,  and  they 
were  never  forgotten. 

14 


210  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

All  of  the  company  present  were  touched  by  the 

tone  of  the  farewell, 
For  they  seemed  to  hear  the  refrain  of  a  lay  in 

the  distance, 
Giving  a  soft  response  from  beyond  to  the  note 

of  the  poet, 
Who  was  singing  to-day  the  last,  last  strains  of 

his  swan-song. 

Hark  to  the  bardlings !  a  youth  steps  forth  from 

the  line  of  the  chorus, 
With   a   discord  in  look  and  in  heart  —  it  was 

high-born  Glaucus, 
Who  from  Lycia  came,  and  now  he  sang  to  the 

maiden : 
"  I  have  tried  to  win  the  hand  of  the  daughter 

of  Homer ; 
How  I  longed  to  carry  her  off  to  the  banks    of 

the  Xanthus, 
WThere  is  my  sweet  sunny  home  by  the  banks  of 

the  eddying  Xanthus ! 
Honest  my  suit  was  to  bear  her  away  once  more, 

the  Greek  Helen, 
Peacefully  bring  back  the  beautiful  prize  of   the 

world  into  Asia; 
But  I  have  lost,  the  Gods  are  against  me,  and 

turn  from  my  people; 
All  I  have  lost,  I  must  now  see  the  bride  borne 

off  to  the  westward  — 


THE  MAREIAGE.  211 

I  the  son  of  King  Glaucus,  and  grandson  of 
Glaucus  the  Hero, 

I  who  am  sprung  far  back  of  the  seed  of  Bel- 
lerophontes  — 

Hail,  Hymenaeus,  thy  blessing  upon  the  daugh 
ter  of  Homer." 

Scarce  had  he  ended,  when  from  the  opposite 

side  of  the  chorus 
Stepped  forth  a  youth  of  the  West,  in  song  and 

in  love  his  great  rival, 
It  was  Demodocus,  son  of  Demodocus,  Ithacan 

rhapsode: 
"  I   too  sought  for  the  hand    of    the   beautiful 

daughter  of  Homer, 
From  this  isle  I  would  bear  her  away   to  the 

home  of  Ulysses, 
Whence  the  old  Greeks  our  fathers  once  came  to 

the  rescue  of  Helen. 
Great  was  the  deed   they  did,  the  deed  of  the 

Greeks,  our  fathers! 
Beautiful  Helen  again  I  would   rescue  in    fairest 

Praxilla, 
Coming   over   the   sea   from  my   home    to    the 

island  of  Chios. 
I  have  lost,  let  me  go,  I  now  shall  become  but    a 

swineherd, 
Son   unworthy    of    men   who   took   the  citadel 

Trojan. 


212  HOMER  IN   CHIOS. 

Hail,  Hymenseus,  thy  blessing  upon  the  daughter 
of  Homer." 


Forward  came  Sappho,  the  Lesbian  songstress, 

the  tenth  among  Muses, 
Grace  she  revealed  in  her  form  and  her  speech, 

the  fourth  among  Graces, 
Aye  tenth   Muse  of  the  Muses,  and  aye  fourth 

Grace  of  the  Graces, 
As  she  sang  to  the  pair  mid  the  sweet  low  tones 

of  her  cithern : 
"  Hail,  Hymenseus,    hail!     make    happy   the 

bride  and  the  bridegroom  ! 
May  the  souls  of  the  twain  be  one  thought,  the 

two  lives  be  one  living ! 
Make  the  marriage  a  presence,  which  they  shall 

dwell  in  forever. 

May  the  love  of  to-day  be  also  the  love  of  to 
morrow  ! 
You,  O  bride  and  bridegroom,  you  tool  would 

move  by  my  prayer; 
When  you  come  to  your  home  far  over  the  border 

of  Hellas, 
Sappho  forget  not,  who  was  the  first  to  join  you 

together, 
Making  the  love  of  your  hearts  to  flow  in  the 

strains  of  her  music, 

Taking  the  hands  of  you  both  into  hers  and  link 
ing  the  promise, 


THE   MARRIAGE.  213 

Daughter  of  Homer  and  son  of  the  Northland, 

remember  the  songstress, 
Sappho  the  Lesbian  singing  the  love  of  the  youth 

and  the  maiden, 
Hail,  Hyrnemeus  !  make  the   bond  of  the  lovers 

eternal!" 

Soon  Typtodes  stepped  forth,  in  his  hand  were 

the  rolls  of  his  writing, 
Faithful  he  brought  the  work  of  his  life  as  his 

gift  at  the  nuptials, 
Though  the  beautiful  daughter  he  won  not  with 

all  of  his  wooing. 

But  he  hath  his  reward,  his  gift  shall  not  be  for 
gotten. 
Gruffly  with  a  grimace  he  muttered :  Hail,  Hy- 

menasus  ! 
Into  the  hand  of  the  poet   he   put   the   magical 

symbols. 
Then  he  withdrew  from  the  place — not  the  least 

was  the  schoolmaster's  present ; 
As  he  passed  out  of  sight,  he  flung  down  a  tear 

on  the  gravel ; 
Once  he  looked  back  at  his  rolls,  his  life-task, 

sad  at  the  parting. 

Then  spake  Homer,  giving  the  pair  his  last  bene 
diction: 

"  Here,  take  my  book,  now  writ  by  Typtodes  in 
letters  Phoenician, 


HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Keep  it  and  let  it  still  grow,   one  seed   of  your 
future  existence, 

Showing  the  beautiful  world  of  the  Gods  which 
arose  in  our  Hellas, 

Showing  what  man  must  do  with  himself  to  build 

up  a  freeman." 

Then  spake  David,  giving  the  pair  his  last  ben 
ediction  : 

"  Here,  take  my  book,  it  too  is  written  in  letters 
Phoenician, 

By   some    scribe  —  I   know  not   his  name  —  em 
ployed  in  my  household : 

Keep  it  and  let  it  still  grow,  one  seed  of  your 
future  existence, 

Showing  the  law  of  the  world  proclaimed  in  the 
land  of  Judea, 

Showing  the   God,  the   one   only  God,  and   his 

worship  in  spirit." 

So  to  the  Northland  they  took  the  two   books 
of  Homer  and  David, 

Oldest  and  newest,  twin   books  of  all  time,  the 
Greek  and  the  Hebrew, 

Lovingly  bore  them  afar  to  the  West,  the  home 
of  the  nations, 

Which  shall  kindle  the  light  in  their  hearts  and 
carry  it  further, 

Where  the  two  singers  of  Eld  shall  still  sing  daily 
their  wisdom, 

Voices  resounding  in  millions  of  echoes  from  let 
ters  Phoenician, 


THE  MARRIAGE.  215 

Bringing  their  song  to  the  present  and  handing  it 

on  to  the  future, 
Ever   renewing   their   strains  in  the  soul  that  is 

ready  to  hear  them, 
Known  far  better  hereafter  than  ever  in  Greece 

or  Judea. 
Then  the  pair  set  out  —  Hesperion  son  of  the 

Northland, 
And  Praxilla,  fair  maiden  of  Hellas,  the  daughcer 

of  Homer, 
Quitting  the  garden  where  grew  the  orange,  the 

fig  and  pomegranate, 
Where  the  hills  were  a  flutter  of  leaves  of  the 

silvery  olive. 
Soon  they  came  to  the  shore,  and  there  lay  the 

boat  of  the  bridal, 
Covered  with   branches  and  leaves,  and  decked 

with  the  flowers  of  Chios. 
Seamen  raised  up  the  mast  and  steadied  it  firmly 

with  mainstays, 
Then  they  spread  out  the  sails  to  the  wind  and 

took  the  direction. 
Oars   they   dipped   in  the  brine,  for  trial  made 

ready  the  rudder, 
And  the  God  sent  a  favoring  breeze  which  blew 

from  the  island, 
Yet   a  sigh  mid   the   joy  of   the  day  it  would 

whisper  in  snatches. 

"  Farewell  forever,  Praxilla  my  daughter  !  Fare 
well  Hesperion!" 


216  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Light  ran  the  ship  as  it  cut  with  its  keel 
through  the  billowy  waters, 

Laughingly  sparkled  the  sea  in  the  stroke  of  the 
vigorous  oarsmen, 

Over  the  rise  and  the  fall  of  the  ripples  was  rock 
ing  the  vessel, 

Muffled  sang  the  great  deep,  upheaving  and  bear 
ing  its  burden. 

"  Farewell  forever,  O  Homer,  my  father!  Fare 
well  O  Hellas." 

From  the    shore   all   the  youths  of  the  school 

were  gazing  in  sorrow, 
Merrily   still  the  vessel  kept   dancing  away  o'er 

the  billow, 
That   was   the   last  day  of  school,  the  end  had 

come  of  their  training  ; 

Long   they   looked  at  the  boat  until  it  had  van 
ished  from  vision, 
Looked  in  the  blue  at  the  sail  till  lost  in  the  haze 

to  the  westward, 
Wondering   whither  it  went  and  whether  again 

they  would  see  it. 
When   the   small   white  speck   of  the  ship  had 

twinkled  to  nothing, 
Longing  the  scholars  turned  for  the  sight  and  the 

speech  of  the  poet, 
But   he   was   not  to  be  seen,  he  had  gone  to  his 

home  with  King  David. 
Soon  they  too  had  dispersed,  each  went  his  own 

way  to  his  country. 


THE  MAEEIAGE.  217 

Still  the  lovers  sailed  on  far  away  from  the  gar 
dens  of  Chios, 

Onward  they  went  in  their  joy,  behind  them  leav 
ing  the  islands, 

Over  the  deep  they  sailed  and  came  to  the  shore 
of  the  mainland. 

Quitting  the  ship  and  the  sea,  they  plunged  into 
forest  and  desert, 

Into  the  dangers  of  land  far  greater  than  perils 
of  water, 

Fleeting  across  the  wintery  border  of  beauti 
ful  Hellas, 

Where  it  stretches  beyond  the  abode  of  the  Gods 
on  Olympus, 

To  the  regions  where  drinking  their  whey  dwell 
the  mare-milking  Thracians, 

Over  the  hills  and  the  valleys  away  to  the  banks 
of  a  river, 

To  the  stream  that  is  bearing  the  flood  of  the 
wide-whirling  Istros, 

Still  beyond  and  beyond,  still  over  the  plain  and 
the  mountain, 

Over  vast  lands  to  the  seas,  and  over  the  seas  to 
the  lands  still, 

Through  the  icicled  forests,  through  the  tracts 
of  the  frost-fields, 

Still  beyond  and  beyond,  still  over  the  earth  and 
its  circles, 

Onward  they  passed,  the  daughter  of  Homer  and 
son  of  the  Northland  — 


218  HOMER  IN  CHIOS. 

Further  and  further  they  went,  till  they  came  to 

the  homes  of  his  people, 
Bringing  two  books  in  their  journey,  the  gifts  of 

David  and  Homer, 
Bringing  two  songs  of  the  sunrise  to  sing  to  the 

lands  of  the  sunset, 
Songs  still  singing  of  God  in   his  foresight   and 

Man  in  his  freedom, 
Where  the  huge  arms  of  the  breakers  are  smiting 

the  shores  of  the  Ocean, 
Ever  beyond  and  beyond  in  the  stretch  of  their 

strokes  they  are  striking, 
Striking  the  barrier  of  earth  in  the  stress  of  their 

strong  aspiration, 

Beating,  forever  repeating,  the  strokes  of  the  in 
finite  Ocean. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


OCT     8   1938 


Dgr  Q 

^y 

NBB 

HDec'53FF 

NOV181958L 


JUN  1 8  19! 

f  V^ 


RECEIVED 


JUN  2  8  J996 

1    c    *      MJO 
—  **•*-,  ^-  ..  .  

LD21-20m-5,'39  (9269s) 


475406 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


